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I 





THE MARRIED LIFE 
OF HELEN AND WARREN 













































. 












THE MARRIED LIFE 
OF HELEN AND WARREN 

BY 

MABEL HERBERT URNER 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 



Copyricht, 1922 , 1923 , 1924 , 1925 , by 
MABEL HERBERT HARPER 


All rights reserved 



Printed in the United States of America 


THE MURRAY PRINTINC COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 

THE BOSTON BOOKBINDINC COMPANY 
CAMBRIDGE, MASS. 





CONTENTS 


PART I 

Domestic Discords 

PAGK 

The Depression of Arriving Home at Night 

Is Unexpectedly Dispelled ... 3 

Helen’s Unpardonable Blunder Offends 

the Author of 64 Jazzing Souls” . . 11 

Helen’s Romance and Pussy Purr-Mew’s 

Ruff Restore a Revolutionary Relic . 19 

Helen’s Last-Minute Industry Results in a 

Mortifying Company Dinner . . 27 

Warren is a Skeptical Spectator at Profes¬ 
sor Roche’s Dead-Trance Seance . . 35 

Aunt Amelia’s Wedding Present Incites 

Warren to a Disastrous Blunder . . 44 

Warren Proves a Disgruntled Guide to the 

“Arty” Lures of Greenwich Village . 52 

Helen’s Flurried Preparations for a Lux¬ 
urious Trip on a Private Car . . 61 

Helen’s Dubious Enjoyment of the Exclu¬ 
sive Luxury of a Private Car . . 69 

A Box of Flowers Exposes an Embarrass¬ 
ing Subterfuge of Feminine Economy . 77 

Warren’s Scintillating After-Dinner Speech 

Does Not Come Off As Scheduled . . 85 


v 


CONTENTS 


viii 

PACK 

A British Doctor’s Exorbitant Fee Proves 

a Provocative Panacea . . . .313 

An Awkward Interview Follows the Expo¬ 
sure of a Serious Feminine Subterfuge 321 

PART IV 
Family Friction 

The Resumption of Family Hostilities 

Glooms Their Sunday Home-Coming . 331 

Diverting Aunt Amelia’s Dreaded Visita¬ 
tion Proves a Dubious Relief . . 340 

Helen’s Indecorous Disposal of Aunt Ame¬ 
lia’s Compensatory Gift . . . 348 

Helen’s Quixotic Impulse Finds a Staunch 

and Unexpected Champion . . . 356 

Family Greed Intrudes Upon the Equitable 

Divisions of Aunt Sarah’s Effects . . 364 

Warren is Caustically Unsympathetic Over 

His Sister’s Tragic Loss . . . 372 

Warren’s Silk Hat Falls a Victim to Helen’s 

Insatiable Economy .... 380 

Divers Domestic Discords Contribute to 

Warren’s Sunday-Morning Grouch . 388 

An Evening Acquiring Antiques in a 

Famous Old Knickerbocker Home . 396 


PART I 


DOMESTIC DISCORDS 









THE MARRIED LIFE 
OF HELEN AND WARREN 


The Depression of Arriving Home at 
Night is Unexpectedly Dispelled 

“Going to get out or not?” Warren dragged off 
the hand-baggage while the driver struggled with 
the steamer trunks. 

Shrinking back in the taxi, Helen was fighting 
the sick depression that always shadowed their 
home-comings. 

Aroused by Warren’s caustic impatience, she 
stepped out to the familiar surroundings that three 
months abroad had made curiously unreal. 

The same doorman who had seen them off came 
running out. 

“How are you, Joe? Everything all right?” 
brisked Warren. 

“Yes, sir,” grinning his welcome. “Don’t you 
carry them bags, Mr. Curtis. I’ll come back for 
’em,” as he helped with the trunks. 

With a strange sense of detachment, Helen fol¬ 
lowed them through the hall and into the elevator. 

Warren, always glad to get home, radiated a 
bustling energy. 

“Well, here we are!” when he unlocked the door 
3 


4 HELEN AND WARREN 

of their apartment. “Seems darned good to be 
back.” 

He did not notice her unresponsive silence as 
she switched on the lights and gazed about. 

The rolled-up rugs, curtainless windows, and 
drawn shades gave a dismantled dreariness to the 
dusty rooms. 

How dead everything looked! It all seemed to 
belong to a remote past. 

There, on the desk, was the address book she had 
laid out to take and forgotten. And there the paper 
and string from the box of chocolates—a last- 
minute steamer gift. 

“Jove, it’s close in here!” Warren was struggling 
with a weather-stuck window. “Now, where d’you 
want those trunks?” 

“In the dining room—until I get them unpacked. 
Wait, I’d better put down some newspapers so he 
won’t scratch the floor.” 

As she watched the man carry in the trunks, 
every foreign label brought back some alluring 
memory of the trip. 

Now that magic time was over. She must settle 
down to the drab realities of housekeeping. 

A bit of pasteboard fluttered from the pocket of 
her coat as she took it off. 

A London bus ticket! Those long exploring rides 
on the bus tops! The quaint old streets—the fog 
—the dinginess—the lure of London! 

“Dear, we WILL go over again, won’t we?” 
wistfully. “Maybe next year?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


5 


“Eh? You crazy? Talking about another trip 
before we get unpacked? What’s the matter with 
you anyway? Look about as lively as a hearse!” 

“I—I guess it’s getting home at night—that 
always depresses me. I was hoping we wouldn’t 
dock until morning.” 

“Well, I’m darned glad to get off that boat. My 
own bed looks good to me. Twenty of ten,” glanc¬ 
ing at his watch. “Too late to call up Stevens?” 

“Wait, let me dust off that desk!” as he sat down 
to the telephone. 

But when she returned from the pantry with the 
cloth, Warren’s elbow was resting on the dust- 
coated mahogany. 

“Line’s busy,” he flung up the receiver. “Now 
for heaven’s sake, you’re not going to start clean¬ 
ing up tonight?” 

“I must wipe off the worst of this—we can’t lay 
anything down. Just look at that table!” 

“Well, what of it? Got somebody coming to¬ 
morrow, haven’t you?” 

“I hope so. I sent Mrs. O’Grady a special de¬ 
livery from the dock. And this floor! How does 
it get so gritty when everything’s closed up?” 

“How about the mail?” with exasperating uncon¬ 
cern. “Guess the superintendent’s got it. I’ll 
’phone down.” 

“Wait, dear, open the trunks first.” 

“See here, you’re not going to start unpacking 
now?” 

“I’ve got to get out some things for the night. 


6 


HELEN AND WARREN 


And I want to hang up my dresses. The way that 
inspector jammed them back! He was horrid! 
He made hardly any allowance for wear—and 
I’ve worn almost everything I bought.” 

“Well, we got off pretty easy,” tugging at a 
trunk strap. “Forty dollars duty wasn’t much 
to pay on all the stuff you carted back.” 

“You always make me declare everything! No¬ 
body else does—not all the things they’ve worn.” 

“Makes no difference what anybody else does,” 
sternly. “We’re not going to do any smuggling 
to save a few dollars.” 

“I don’t call that smuggling!” with feminine 
lawlessness. “Dear, put these in the bathroom,” 
handing him his shaving things from the suitcase. 
“And wait, take this,” throwing his bathrobe over 
his arm. 

“Holy smoke, this light’s on!” he shouted back. 
“Haven’t been in here, have you?” 

The light on! Helen flew to the bathroom door. 

“Oh!” she gasped. “You don’t mean it’s been 
burning ever since-” 

“Looks like it,” grimly. “Unless you’ve just 
turned it on.” 

“No—no, I haven’t been near here! Oh, how 
COULD it have happened? I’m always so careful 
to see that all the water and lights are off!” 

“Well you weren’t so blamed careful this time! 
That meter’s been working day and night—ever 
since we left. Running up a whale of a bill!” 

“And it’s a 40-watt!” looking up at the large 



HELEN AND WARREN 


7 


frosted bulb. “Think of it burning three months! 
I wouldn’t have enjoyed a moment of the trip if 
I’d known.” 

“Then good thing you didn’t know. Well, no 
use stewing over it now.” 

“How much do you think the bill will be? 
About?” at his disclaiming shrug. 

“How in blazes do I know? Now forget it, I 
tell you! Come on, let’s get things straight and 
turn in.” 

Forget it! Forget that light—burning ever 
since they left! All the time they were in Hol¬ 
land—Paris—London! All those days on the 
steamer! 

She thought pf her little economies during the 
trip—and every moment this 40-watt bulb had 
been consuming money. That remorseless meter 
registering day and night! 

“Well, the water hasn’t been running, that’s cer¬ 
tain,” grunted Warren, as a rusty stream splut¬ 
tered from the faucet when he started to wash his 
hands. 

“If it had only been a smaller bulb!” deplored 
Helen, “25-watt is all anyone has in a bathroom— 
but you always want such a strong light.” 

“You bet I do—and I’ll have it, too! Got to 
see to shave. But you needn’t leave it burning for 
three months! Who the deuce is that?” he stalked 
out to answer the bell. 

Recognizing the superintendent’s voice, Helen 
ran out to the hall. 


8 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Glad to see you back, Mrs. Curtis. Just came 
up to bring your mail. I hope you found every¬ 
thing all right.” 

“Oh, Mr. Thompson—the light in the bathroom! 
It’s been burning all the time we were gone! I 
don’t know HOW we happened to leave it on! I’ve 
NEVER done such a thing before!” 

“Why, no, Mrs. Curtis, that light’s not been 
burning. I turned off both the light and water the 
day after you sailed. Just turned them on tonight 
—when I saw them bringing in your trunks.” 

“But how—how could you?” stammered Helen. 
“You haven’t a key! That’s a special lock Mr. 
Curtis had put on.” 

“I can turn it off from the basement. I always 
do when any of our tenants go away for any length 
of time.” 

“Then it WASN’T burning?” joyously. “Oh, 
what a relief!” 

“Well, that’s fine, Mr. Thompson,” grinned 
Warren. “Nothing like having things fool proof 
when there’re a lot of women around. You cer¬ 
tainly look out for your tenants.” 

“Wait, Mr. Thompson, I’ve something for you. 
Just a moment!” 

Helen had brought for him only a cheap two- 
shilling pipe. But now in a burst of grateful 
generosity, she got out two of Warren’s Spitalfields 
ties, that he had bought at an expensive Piccadilly 
shop. 

The superintendent, beaming his thanks, said 


HELEN AND WARREN 9 

he would be up in the morning to see if anything 
was needed. 

“Oh, I never was so thankful for anything! He 
DOES look after things,” enthused Helen, as the 
hall door closed. “I’d have been just sick over 
that light.” 

“Where’d you get those ties you gave him?” 
demanded Warren. “Looked like some I got at 
Morgan & Ball’s.” 

“Yes, dear, they were. But the pipe I brought 
him didn’t seem enough after he’d saved us all 
that-” 

“Well, you’ve got a nerve! Buy a lot of cheap 
junk for presents—too blamed stingy to get any¬ 
thing decent! Then you’re ashamed to give ’em 
—and you hand out my best ties!” 

“But think of the electric bill if that light had 
been on all the time! Oh, I never was so relieved! 
I’d have worried myself sick over it.” 

“Huh, worrying’s your long suit. Come on now, 
no more unpacking tonight. Turn on that water in 
the tub—let it run clear. I want a bath. What 
about this bed?” jerking down the sheet from the 
bare, red-striped mattress. 

“Oh, be careful, that’s covered with dust!” 
gathering up the sheet. “I had her strip the bed.” 

As Helen hurriedly got out fresh bed linen, she 
was conscious that the depression, the “let-down” 
of getting home that had weighed so heavily a few 
moments before, was now surmounted by a joyous 
relief. 



10 


HELEN AND WARREN 


And why? Nothing had happened. Every¬ 
thing was just the same. Only her state of mind had 
changed. 

“Dear, isn’t it strange how trivial things change 
our moods? I was so depressed at getting home 
tonight. I always shrink from getting things started 
—a new maid and all. And now, just because 
I thought that light had been burning, then found 
it hadn’t—I’m elated! It’s like losing something 
and finding it. You’re no better off than you 
were before—but you’re so much happier.” 

“Eh? What the Sam Hill you driving at?” 
Warren was unlacing his shoes. “No time to dis¬ 
sect your fool moods. After eleven—and I’ve got 
to get to the office early. Now stop spouting 
idiotic philosophy—and sling some covers on that 
bed!” 


Helen’s Unpardonable Blunder 
Offends the Author of “Jazzing Souls” 

“Dear, what did Mary Blair Wingott write?” 

“Never heard of her,” Warren was thrusting 
the studs in a dress shirt. 

“Oh, yes, you have. Try to think,” anxioused 
Helen. “She’s to be there tonight. We MUST 
know what she’s written!” 

“If you wanted the dope on her, why wait till 
the last minute?” emptying the pockets of the suit 
he was taking off. 

“I called up Mrs. Stevens this morning. She 
was out, and I forgot to ’phone again. It’s too 
late now—they always dine out on Thursday. Oh, 
I know, ‘Sinning Saints’! Wasn’t that what she 
wrote?” 

“Can’t prove it by me,” with a shrug of ex¬ 
asperating indifference. 

Hooking her blue chiffon gown, Helen ran into 
the library. 

Hastily she scanned the book supplement, saved 
from last Sunday’s paper. 

Yes, there it was—a half-column ad. ‘Sin¬ 
ning Saints’—but NOT by Mary Blair Wingott. 

“Quarter of eight,” called Warren. “What time 

we supposed to be there?” 

11 


12 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“She didn’t write ‘Sinning Saints’,” now turning 
through a literary monthly. “Oh, about nine. 
Dear, we MUST know what she wrote!” 

“Don’t worry, she’ll let you know,” buttoning 
his vest as he stood in the door. “Never met a 
writer yet that didn’t spring something about their 
‘last book’ before you talk to ’em two minutes.” 

“But I’ll feel so awkward if we don’t know. 
Here’s what Mrs. Merwin says,” taking a note 
from the desk: 

“ ‘Now don’t fail to come, as Mary 
Blair Wingott will be here. She is 
most interesting. You know what a sensa¬ 
tion her book has made.’ ” 

“Huh, hope she’s not going to read extracts 
from it! If she does, I make a speedy get-away. 
Sat through one of those author’s readings—that’ll 
last me for some time.” 

“Oh, I’ll call up Mrs. Dalton!” eagerly. “She 
reads everything. Why didn’t I think of her?” 
fluttering to the telephone. 

The next moment she had Mrs. Dalton on the 
wire. 

“We’re going to the Merwins’ this evening. 
Mary Blair Wingott’s to be there. Do tell me what 
she wrote. . . . Oh, the ‘Passionate Purple’! 
Yes, I remember the reviews. I should’ve known. 
... It came out last spring? . . . Thank you so 
much.” 

“ ‘Passionate Purple’,” scoffed Warren, as she 


HELEN AND WARREN 


13 


turned from the ’phone. “They’ve rung in ‘passion¬ 
ate’ everything, except ‘Passionate Pickles’. Ha, 
ha, that’d make a peach of a title! How about 
‘Pickled Passions’? That’s better still.” 

“Now, dear, when we get there, DO try to be 
serious! Don’t make any breaks about writers. 
And please don’t look bored if she talks about her 
book. You should’ve seen your face that time 
Irene Huntington read her poems.” 

“Well, if this female starts reading from 
‘Passionate Purple’, you won’t have to worry about 
my face—it won’t be there! Come on, want a 
taxi?” 

“No, the car takes us right to the corner. I 
wish I’d asked if she’d written anything else. Oh, 
wasn’t that ‘Passionate Purple’ filmed?” 

“If it wasn’t, it will be. That’s a safe bet. 
They’re not missing anything ‘passionate’ in the 
movies.” 

When they reached the street, ignoring Helen’s 
economical preference, he hailed a taxi, and they 
were soon drawing up before Royalton Court. 

Shot up to the eighth floor, they were ushered 
into Mrs. Merwin’s pretentious ten-room-and-three- 
bath apartment. 

As they laid off their wraps, the buzz of voices 
suggested a party well in progress. 

Entering the large studio living-room, lit by 
shaded lamps and candles, they were effusively 
greeted by Mrs. Merwin. 

“I’m so glad you could come. I want you to 


14 HELEN AND WARREN 

meet Mary Blair Wingott. You’ll find her charm¬ 
ing.” 

To be introduced to a group of people was, for 
Helen, always an embarrassing ordeal. 

An awkward moment of smiling, bowing, and 
mumbling of names, and she found herself seated 
near Mary Blair Wingott. 

She was tall, thin, straight-lined. Dripping ear¬ 
drops, drooping black hair, and clinging jade 
green velvet emphasized her trailing slimness. 

“Yes. I’ll have to go to Hollywood next 
month,” she rippled on, languidly plying her green 
feather fan. “The casting director wants me to 
come out before he signs up all the parts.” 

“It’ll make a wonderful film,” glowed Mrs. 
Merwin. “There’s so much dramatic action. 
You’re writing the scenario yourself?” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t bother with that,” loftily, 
her fan wafting the exotic odor of Chypre. “I 
can’t give them much time—the publishers are 
rushing me for my new book. I told my sec¬ 
retary today if they didn’t stop hounding me 
I’d break all my contracts and go to Europe.” 

A nervous, youngish, gray-haired little woman, 
who had been listening with awed deference, now 
leaned forward to ask: 

“Miss Wingott, do you dictate—or do you write 
your rough copy?” 

This question launched the novelist into a glib, 
voluble recital of how she worked, her hours, her 
secretary, her recreations, 


HELEN AND WARREN 


15 


After a lengthy, uninterrupted flow of this ego¬ 
istic, detailed self-analysis, Helen glanced appre¬ 
hensively at Warren. Her uneasiness increased as 
she saw his lower lip twitch—always a sign of 
some caustic comment. 

He was going to say something cynical! She 
tried to catch his eye, but he was looking straight 
at Mary Blair Wingott as she continued her minute 
self psycho-analysis. 

“You haven’t told us yet, Miss Wingott, on what 
breakfast cereal you do your best creative work,” 
he drawled with imperturbable gravity. 

Helen caught her breath, the blood rushing to 
her face. But Mary Blair Wingott’s egotism was 
immune to this sarcasm. 

“Cereal? I never eat cereal. Only the Con¬ 
tinental breakfast—coffee and rolls. I couldn’t 
create on anything so stultifying as cereal.” 

Again that ominous quirk of Warren’s lower 
Hp. 

Another thrust was imminent. 

Mr. Merwin grinned. Mrs. Merwin looked un¬ 
easy. An amused expectancy charged the air. 
But Mary Blair Wingott’s self-complacency was 
invulnerable. 

She was telling how for sixteen hours she had 
worked under one “driving, impelling inspira¬ 
tion”. No food nor rest, only a little orange juice 
that her “secretary” brought to her desk. 

She wrote best under the stimulus of music. 
Often when in the throes of an emotional scene, 


16 


HELEN AND WARREN 


she had her reproducing piano, in the next room, 
play an Hungarian Rhapsody. 

Again that ominous ironic quirk of Warren’s 
lower lip. 

Desperately Helen broke in with a nervous: 

“How long did it take you, Miss Wingott, to 
write the ‘Passionate Purple’?” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Quailing under the glacial glance now turned 
upon her, Helen had no choice but to repeat her 
question. 

“Did it take you very long to write the ‘Passion¬ 
ate Purple’?” 

“Is that meant for a joke?” her voice dripped 
icicles. “I don’t know how long it took Carol 
Dobbs Blake to write the ‘Passionate Purple’, but 
it reads like she wrote it with her toes in two 
hours.” 

“Oh, of course. I—I just got the wrong names,” 
stammered Helen. 

Fortunately, the arrival of other guests alleviated 
this excruciating situation. In the general shift¬ 
ing to make room for the newcomers, Helen’s 
crimsoned confusion sought the farthest corner of 
a secluded window-seat. 

A high-backed, near-antique Italian chair now 
blocked her view of Warren. But she did not care. 
No break he might make could be worse than hers. 

A little later she saw him retreat to the next 
room with Mr. Merwin, where they were soon 
comfortably settled with cigars. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


17 


The atmosphere relieved of their restraining 
presence, Mary Blair Wingott lit another cigarette 
and launched into further minute analysis of her 
temperaments, her moods, and her reactions. 

Even the serving of refreshments did not inter¬ 
rupt this fluent personal stream. Since the pub¬ 
lication of her “Jazzing Souls”, letters had “poured 
in from women all over the world.” Her 
“message” had “probed deep.” 

“Jazzing Souls”! Helen, in her corner win¬ 
dow-seat, bit her lips. “Jazzing Souls”! She re¬ 
membered now the flamboyant ads in all the 
papers. 

And Mrs. Dalton had made that hideous mis¬ 
take! Oh, why had she asked her? She could 
have called up a library or a book shop. 

It seemed an eternity before someone made 
the first departing move. Eager to escape, Helen 
rose to signal Warren, still in the next room with 
Mr. Merwin. 

But there was another awkward ten minutes of 
leave-taking before they were out in the shadowed, 
deserted street. 

“Well, who made the break this time?” snorted 
Warren. “So all-fired afraid I’d say something 
to crab the party. Seems to me you put a crimp 
in it!” 

“Oh, that was ghastly! I’ll never forgive Mrs. 
Dalton! How could she have mixed those names?” 

“Talk about bone plays—you certainly pulled a 
whopper! That slinky dame oozing tid-bits about 


18 


HELEN AND WARREN 


her temperament—and you chiming in with your 
‘Passionate Purple’! Bet she loves the jane who 
wrote that spasm like a dog does a tin can!” 

“Oh, the way she glared at me! I thought I’d 
go through the floor.” 

“Glad you handed it to her. Had us all sittin’ 
around on our hind legs listening to her ‘I-me-mine’ 
stuff. All that lippy rot about tuning up for an 
inspiration. Does her mushy scenes to canned 
music! ‘Jazzing Souls’,” with a chuckle. “Jazz¬ 
ing Piffle!” 

“And everybody read it! Oh, I should’ve 
known,” anguished Helen. “How COULD I have 
made such an awful-” 

“Well, you gave her ego a jolt, all right. And 
I’m darn glad of it. The crack I took at her went 
clear over her head—but your blunder got her 
peeved. Ha, ha, Kitten, the frost she threw when 
you pulled that!” 

Then, as he flourished his cane at a taxi: 

“But the next time you coach up to meet a celeb¬ 
rity—get your dope straight. Before you speak 
your little piece—you’d better be sure of your 
lines!” 



Helen’s Romance and Pussy Purr-Mew’s 
Ruff Restore a Revolutionary Relic 

A box of old jewelry. Odds and ends that she 
never wore. 

A wrist watch past repairing, a gold-tipped 
leadless pencil, a ring and stick-pin minus the set¬ 
tings, an old class pin, some coral beads, a broken 
bracelet, and a small gold locket. 

Broodingly Helen looked over the inadequate 
trinkets in search of something for the rummage 
sale of the Animal League. 

Of all charities those for animals appealed to 
her most. She had already laid out an old sweater 
and a hand bag, but she wanted to give something 
more. 

The locket! She would never wear it. A thin, 
round gold locket of her high-school days. 

Prying it open with a nail file, a rush of memo¬ 
ries overwhelmed her as she gazed at the lock of 
auburn hair. 

Stanley Gates! 

Even now her heart beat fast, though she had not 
thought of him in years. 

Those Elysian summer evenings in her home 
town—the whole week but a dreamy wait for his 
Sunday night call. The fragrant honeysuckled air, 
the moonlit porch, the thrilled enchantment of it 
all! 

The poignant anguish of that night he did not 
19 


20 


HELEN AND WARREN 


come—the denouement of a foolish quarrel the 
week before. His fiery pride and temper had 
been part of his fascination. The ecstatic joy of 
the gradual “making up.” 

And now this locket held all that was left of the 
aching emotionalism of all those summer nights. 

She used to dream of his future as a great en¬ 
gineer—building bridges and railroads in tropical 
countries. His fame and fortune made, he would 
come back for her. 

Instead, he went on the road for a wholesale 
grocer and married a girl in Toronto. 

The tiny glass pried off, the circlet of hair lay 
in Helen’s hand. 

What should she do with it? She could not 
throw it in the waste basket nor leave it in the 
locket to be sent to the rummage sale. 

“Said you wanted to make that salad dressin’ 
yourself,” reminded Nora from the library door. 

Dropping the hair into the stamp box, until she 
could put it away, Helen hurried out to the kitchen 
to make the pimento cheese dressing. 

It was almost seven when Warren came home, 
irritably tired and hungry. 

“Jove, I’ve had a day of it!” as he peeled off his 
coat in the hall. “Dinner ready? Tell her to put 
it right on. Didn’t have time for lunch.” 

At the table he made rapid inroads on the 
roast beef, spinach, and sweet potatoes. 

“Dear, don’t eat so fast! You shouldn’t go 
without your lunch.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


21 


“Driven every minute. Walter Hill’s here from 
Chicago. Shove over that celery. In all morn¬ 
ing. Just got rid of him and started for lunch— 
when Mrs. Winston blew in with a hard-luck 
story.” 

“Mrs. Winston? Why I thought they were 
wealthy?” 

“Got it in bales—nothing to do with money. But 
just because I’m their lawyer she runs to me with 
every fool thing. Winston’s a great collector of 
Washington relics, and she—oh, it’s too long a 
story. Trot out that spinach.” 

After dinner, heavy and indolent from over-eat¬ 
ing, Warren grumblingly sat down at the library 
desk. 

“Dear, you don’t have to work tonight, do you?” 

“Got to get off a letter to Heartman. Got a 
decent pen? Left mine at the office. Get me a 
blotter. Where d’you keep my paper?” 

The blotter was there before him and his en¬ 
graved paper in the drawer where it was always 
kept. But he never sat down at the desk without 
firing at her these same querulous questions. 

“Where’re my envelopes?” when the letter was 
written. “Got any stamps?” 

“Right there in the stamp box,” with well-trained 
patience. “Your envelopes are in that third 
cubby-hole—where they always are.” 

“For the love of Lulu! Where in blazes did 
this come from? Well, that’s what I call luck.” 

Darting to the desk, Helen was amazed to find 


22 


HELEN AND WARREN 


him scrutinizing the lock of hair she had left in 
the stamp box. 

“Reddish brown!” he chuckled. “By Jingo, 
that’s the shade to a T.” 

“Warren, what DO you mean?” trying to take 
it from him. 

“If that’s not a dead ringer for Washington’s 
mop, I’ll eat it!” 

Drawing a document from his pocket he held it 
under the desk light. 

In dazed bewilderment, Helen gazed over his 
shoulder. To the age-yellowed paper was pinned 
a thin wisp of hair tied with a faded bit of ribbon. 

“Not quite,” comparing the few hairs on the 
document with Stanley Gates’ lock. “Need some 
white to make the right mixture.” 

“Dear, what ARE you trying to do?” 

“Tryin’ to get out of hanging around a barber 
shop until a red-headed man comes in for a hair¬ 
cut.” 

“Are you CRAZY?” hysterically. 

“Matching up a lock of George Washington’s 
mane. Here’s the dope: 

“ ‘A lock of General Washington’s hair. 

Cut at Mount Vernon, the fifth day of 

August, 1796, by his niece, Eleanor P. 

Custis.’ ” 

“But why should you-” began Helen, still 

bewildered. 

“Tryin’ to get Mrs. Winston out of a hole. 



HELEN AND WARREN 


23 


Started to tell you at dinner. She blew into the 
office all worked up because she’d lost most of this 
hair. Winston bought it from another Washington 
collector—cost him five hundred bones. Now she’s 
scared stiff—don’t dare tell him.” 

“Lost it? How?” 

“She got it out to loan to some affair of the 
Revolutionary Dames. The ribbon was loose and 
she started to retie it. Somebody opened a door 
—and it blew out the window. All but these few 
measly hairs.” 

“And she couldn’t find it?” 

“Hardly, from an eighth story window. She 
put it up to me to get another lock. Said she’d 
pay any price. I called up half a dozen dealers 
in Revolutionary stuff—but nothing doing. No 
Washington hair on the market. She was pretty 
desperate by that time—so I told her she’d have 
to fake it.” 

“Fake it?” 

“Dead easy! Got the document—that’s the 
main thing. Match up the hair at a barber’s. But 
she couldn’t hang around a barber shop and was 
afraid to trust anybody else—so it was up to me. 
Now, by Golly, I’m saved the trouble.” 

Stanley Gates’ hair! That once-cherished token 
of her romantic girlhood—to fill out a depleted 
five-hundred-dollar George Washington lock! 

“But we’ve got to get those white hairs,” 
scowled Warren, again holding the document under 
the light. “Have to fall back on the barber after 


24 HELEN AND WARREN 

all. But white won’t be so hard to get as red.” 

Then, as he slipped Stanley Gates’ circlet into 
an envelope: 

“Where’d this come from anyway? How’d it 
get in that stamp box?” 

“Oh, I was just going over some old things,” 
flushed Helen, “and I-” 

“One of your old beaus, eh?” unflattering un¬ 
concern. “Did you have any old boys on your 
string? Any with gray hair?” hopefully. 

“Warren, you can say the most horrid things!” 

“Here, get down! Jove, that cat’s shedding! 
Keep her out of my chair.” 

“She loves that chair,” with a conciliatory pat 
for Pussy Purr-Mew, who was blinking at Warren, 
sleepily indignant at her rough ejection. 

“By Jimminy, I’ve got it!” with a chuckle. 
“Get the scissors! Here’s where Pussy Purr-Mew 
contributes to a Revolutionary relic.” 

“Warren, you WOULDN’T-” 

“Why not? What people don’t know won’t hurt 
’em. Just snip a bit of that white under her neck 
—and I’ll mix up a corking specimen.” 

“Oh, not from Pussy Purr-Mew! Dear, it 
seems almost irreverent. If it were anyone but 
Washington-” 

“Well, I don’t want Mrs. Winston throwing 
weeps in my office. If we’ve got to fake it, Pussy 
Purr-Mew’s no worse than any old soak who dusts 
into a barber’s. Anyway, G. W. was a good sport 
—he’d appreciate the joke. We’re not trying to 





HELEN AND WARREN 


25 


undermine his reputation. Here, Pussums, come on 
and make your contribution! You ought to feel 
honored.” 

But Pussy Purr-Mew, from her refuge under the 
couch, sensing something in the air, with feline 
perversity refused to be caught. 

“You hold her, dear,” when at last Helen 
brought her squirming, protesting to the desk. 
“Gentle, don’t frighten her. Now, where do you 
want it from?” 

“Under her neck or tummie? She’s too dark on 
top. Here, no scratching!” 

The next second a bit of long white fur lay in 
Helen’s hand, as Pussy Purr-Mew scurried away 
to nurse her resentment at such predacious liber¬ 
ties. 

“Now, you match this up and tie it—you’ve got 
small fingers. Make a good fat lock—if it looks 
more’n the original she can thin it out.” 

It was a delicate task—the mixing of just enough 
of Pussy Purr-Mew’s white hairs with Stanley’s 
auburn ones, to make the exact shade of the scant 
sample. 

“Neat job!” grinned Warren. “Old Winston’ll 
never know it from the specimen that set him back 
five hundred. And it’s to be exhibited at some 
blow-out of the Revolutionary Dames! Ha, ha, 
wouldn’t I like to see those old girls with their 
lorgnettes lamping that?” 

“It’s too funny for words,” Helen tied the faded 
ribbon. “But it’s more like the kind of thing I’d 


26 


HELEN AND WARREN 


do,” pinning it to the document through the same 
pin-holes. “You’re never tricky. You’re always 
so square about everything.” 

“Nothing in this for me! Just helping her out 
of a hole. And I’ve no qualms about putting any¬ 
thing over on Winston. Surly old cuss!” 

“But what if he should ever find out? Some 
day she might tell him.” 

“Don’t worry, he’s got her scared stiff. Meanest 
old tight-wad ever was!” 

Then, chuckling, he returned the document to his 
pocket. 

“Well, Kitten, that’s the time you delivered the 
goods. Pity we haven’t more authenticating docu¬ 
ments—we’d turn out snips of Washington’s hair 
at a ripping profit! Jove, that’s a scream! 
Wouldn’t old Winston tear the air if he knew? 
Your old flame and Pussy Purr-Mew—joint con¬ 
tributors to posterity!” 


Helen’s Last-Minute Industry Results 
in a Mortifying Company Dinner 

“It just won’t screw on,” anxioused Helen, 
struggling with the curtain rod. “Oh, hold it 
tight!” as the ladder lurched. 

“I’m holdin’ it. Why dontcha try another one?” 
advised Nora. 

“They’re all the same. Now I’ve dropped it 
again,” as the small brass end clattered to the 
floor. “It rolled under the sideboard—yes, there 
it is!” 

At any other time Helen could have quickly 
put up these dining-room curtains. But now, be¬ 
cause she was in a desperate hurry, everything 
went wrong. 

And it was all the laundry’s fault for not de¬ 
livering the curtains when promised! 

“I’m afraid them peas is dry,” worried Nora. 
“Can I run a minute?” 

“Oh, there’s Mr. Curtis!” as the door banged. 
“Yes, you can go now.” 

“For the love of Lulu!” amazed Warren from 
the hall. “What’s all this?” 

“Quick, dear, come hold this ladder! She has 
to see to the dinner.” 

“Puttin’ up curtains at this hour? Of all the 
idiotic stunts!” 


27 


28 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“They just this minute came from the laundry. 
Hand me that other rod.” 

“Now you’d better get down from there and get 
dressed. The OsgoodsTl be here in twenty 
minutes.” 

“I can do it, if you’ll help. Don’t stop to argue! 
Hand me that hammer.” 

“Don’t see any hammer,” glancing about with 
his usual helplessness. 

“She just had it. There it is—on that chair.” 

Two pair of curtains up, Helen, tense and flus¬ 
tered, started on the last. 

“Let that window go,” growled Warren. “No¬ 
body’ll ever notice. Come down, and I’ll get that 
ladder out of here.” 

“Dear, don’t—you only rattle me!” running the 
rod through the crisp dotted Swiss curtains. “It’s 
these ends that’re so mean. Now this one won’t fit!” 

“Here, get down, I’ll fix it.” 

Climbing down, she steadied the ladder, while 
Warren fumbled with the obdurate fixture. 

“They’ve painted over these darned things! No 
wonder they won’t screw on. Here, give me some 
tacks. I’ll fix it for tonight.” 

Anxiously Helen watched as he drove in two 
tacks on which he rested the rod. 

“Oh, Warren, that’s not safe! It might come 
down.” 

“Do for tonight. No time to fuss now. Where 
d’you keep this ladder?” 

“Behind the pantry door,” always exasperated 


HELEN AND WARREN 


29 


at his ignorance of everything about the house. 
“What’s that green stuff on the rug? She fixed 
that fern in here! Dear, run the carpet-sweeper 
over that. I’ve got to dress—it takes me longer.” 

“Where’s the carpet-sweeper?” as he took out 
the ladder. 

“In the pantry—where it’s always kept.” 

In her own room, Helen dressed with nervous 
haste, hoping desperately the Osgoods would be a 
few minutes late. 

A run in her beige chiffon stocking! A hasty 
dab of cologne to check it. No time to change now. 

Hooking up her dress, she dashed out to the 
kitchen. 

“Nora, don’t forget you cracked that large plat¬ 
ter—you’ll have to use the small one. I hope Mr. 
Curtis won’t get it all over the cloth when he 
carves.” 

“If them peas taste scorched, ain’t my fault,” 
grumbled Nora belligerently. “They boiled down 
dry while I was helpin’ with them curtains.” 

“Just set the stew pan in cold water. That draws 
out the scorched taste. Oh, don’t put the mint 
jelly in that saucer—use the olive dish. And 
don’t cut those butter squares so thick. Oh, I’ve 
got this hooked all wrong!” 

Starting back to her mirror, Helen paused in the 
dining-room for a final survey of the table. There, 
against the sideboard, Warren had left the carpet- 
sweeper! 

Exasperated at his carelessness she thrust it into 


30 


HELEN AND WARREN 


the pantry, and was darting back to her room when 
the bell rang. 

“Dear, are you dressed?” rushing to his door. 
“Can you receive them?” 

“Wonder you wouldn’t be ready for once,” jerk¬ 
ing on his dinner coat. “Always start some fool 
job the last minute. Got all week to get ready— 
yet you’re puttin’ up curtains when you ought to 
be dressed. Why the Sam Hill don’t you-” 

But not waiting to hear his explosion, Helen 
flew back to her room. 

When, flushed and self-conscious from her 
breathless haste, she fluttered out to meet her 
guests, Mrs. Osgood’s cool composure contributed 
to her discomfort. 

And a few minutes later, as they went into the 
dining-room, her confusion was further increased 
by an overlooked box of tacks on the sideboard. 

“What’s your reaction, Mrs. Curtis?” Mr. 
Osgood turned to her. “What do you think he 
should’ve done?” 

Helen caught her breath. Wondering how she 
could spirit away the box of tacks, she had not 
heard what had been said. 

“Why, I—I hardly know,” she faltered. 

“You think he should’ve published that letter?” 

What were they talking about? 

“Why, I—” she looked appealingly at Warren. 

His eyes were grimly humorous. He knew, 
but would not help her. 

“My lorgnette! The chain’s broken,” dismayed 



HELEN AND WARREN 


31 


Mrs. Osgood, as something clanked to the floor. 

Eagerly welcoming the interruption, Helen 
stooped to pick it up. What was that under it? 
She paused, petrified, the blood rushing to her 
face. 

The platinum lorgnette had fallen on a clotted 
mass of dust! From the carpet-sweeper! Warren, 
in running the sweeper over the rug, had tipped it, 
emptying the contents. Fuzz, dust, hair, threads, 
pins—a repugnant mass! 

Her face crimson, Helen picked up the lorgnette. 
Caught by a hair, the whole repulsive snarl came 
with it! 

To longer ignore it was impossible. 

Mrs. Osgood was staring with undisguised dis¬ 
gust. 

“Oh, I—how dreadful!” stammered Helen, try¬ 
ing to sever the abhorrent mass. “It’s—it’s from 
the carpet-sweeper. Nora’s so careless! She 
must’ve turned it over. It always comes out when 
you do that.” 

In the awkward pause that followed, Nora en¬ 
tered with the vegetables. 

“Nora, get the dust-pan and take this up at 
once,” severely. “It’s from the carpet-sweeper— 
and you didn’t notice it.” 

“ ’Twasn’t me that done that. Mr. Curtis came 
out and got the sweeper just ’fore dinner—I heard 
him runnin’ it in here.” 

Helen’s face grew a deeper crimson. What 
would the Osgoods think? 


32 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“I didn’t know the darned thing turned turtle,” 
grunted Warren, unperturbed. 

“Well, Curtis, you wouldn’t get a housemaid’s 
reference after that job,” laughed Mr. Osgood. 

“Mr. Curtis must be a most accommodating hus¬ 
band. I can’t imagine Richard using a carpet- 
sweeper!” 

The supercilious elevation of Mrs. Osgood’s 
eyebrows completed Helen’s humiliation. Did 
she think Warren helped with the housework? 

“Startin’ to rain,” Nora, with the mound of 
dust on the dust-pan, paused at the open window. 
“Cornin’ in here. I better put it down.” 

A scream! A crash! 

The window was curtainless. A white heap on 
the floor. 

A dazed silence. Nora clutched her shoulder, 
struck by the falling rod. 

“Just missed that dish on the sideboard,” 
shrugged Warren. 

“I didn’t touch it—just came down,” Nora was 
ruefully rubbing her shoulder. “It’s the one Mr. 
Curtis put up.” 

“Curtis, you seem to be getting in wrong to¬ 
night,” chuckled Mr. Osgood. 

“As a general houseworker, guess I’m pretty 
bum,” admitted Warren. “I came home at six to 
find Helen perched on a ladder, puttin’ up those 
blamed curtains,” ignoring her frantic signals. 
“Do all women start on these last-minute jobs?” 

“They’d just come from the laundry—they were 


HELEN AND WARREN 33 

promised for yesterday,” Helen plunged into pro¬ 
fuse explanations. 

“Well, what of it? What’s the big rush to get 
’em up? Eat in here without curtains, couldn’t 
we?” 

“Dear, this is a nice way to entertain Mr. and 
Mrs. Osgood. I don’t know what they’ll think,” 
Helen was almost in tears. 

“That’s all right, Mrs. Curtis. We’ve been mar¬ 
ried a good deal longer’n you folks and we’ve had 
many things happen at company dinners. Molly, 
remember that time the plaster fell down in that 
three-room flat?” 

But Mrs. Osgood was unresponsive to reminis¬ 
cences of their early poverty. 

Helen did not regain her poise all evening. Even 
after they returned to the library, where she served 
coffee and her best home-made cordial, she was 
still painfully self-conscious. 

Fortunately, as the Osgoods were starting early 
in the morning on a week’s motor trip, they did 
not stay late. 

“Well, Curtis, you’d better improve on your 
housework, if you want a reference from me,” a 
final cordial having put Mr. Osgood in a jovial 
mood. 

“Huh, get housemaid’s knee doin’ all that work 
—and only ball things up,” grinned Warren. 
“That was a nice mess I dumped out of the carpet- 
sweeper. Novel dinner diversion!” 

“Oh, I wish we could take her along,” Mrs. 


34 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Osgood stooped to pet Pussy Purr-Mew. “You 
wouldn’t give her as a dinner souvenir?” 

“Pm afraid not,” laughed Helen. “We’ll have 
to make up for our blunders some other way.” 

The Osgoods gone* flushed and tearful, Helen 
dropped on the library couch. 

“Oh, it COULDN’T have been worse!” she 
wailed. “EVERYthing went wrong!” 

“What’d you expect? Startin’ fool jobs the last 
minute!” Warren lit a cigar with his most ex¬ 
asperating shrug. “Darned more important for 
you not to be all flustered, than to have those cur¬ 
tains up. So fussed you pulled that break at the 
table—didn’t know what they were talking about.” 

“Oh, that awful mess from the carpet-sweeper! 
Her lorgnette fell right on it! How could you’ve 
spilled that without seeing it? And the way you 
put up that rod—just laid it on those two tacks! I 
told you-” 

“That’s right, go ahead, blame it all on me! 
Make me the goat! What ’bout you? Not a 
darned thing to do—yet you’re never ready when 
we’ve anybody to dinner. Always leave every¬ 
thing till the last minute! Why in thunder don’t 
you begin in time?” 

Then, with a dismissing shrug: 

“But what in blazes do we care? Give ’em 
something to talk about. Bring on your next party 
—we’ll treat ’em to a wet mop centerpiece and 
dust-rag napkins!” 



Warren is a Skeptical Spectator at Pro¬ 
fessor Roche’s Dead-Trance Seance 

“Now it’s half-past eight and we’re all here. 
Just ten of us,” Mrs. Stevens glanced around her 
drawing-room. “Now, how do you want us to sit, 
Professor?” 

“In a circle, please,” Professor Roche, the 
medium, receiving twenty-five dollars for his eve¬ 
ning’s seance, settled back in a large arm-chair. 

“Do you wish all the lights out, Professor?” 

“No, not too dark. You can leave that piano 
lamp.” 

“That’s right, Sport, join the circle,” grinned 
Warren, stroking Mr. Stevens’ Irish terrier. “If 
they trot out any spirits—you grab ’em by the 
leg.” 

“Sh—sh,” whispered Helen, “you promised not 
to say things.” 

A guarded chuckle from Mr. Stevens, who sat 
next. 

“I would like to explain that I am a dead-trance 
medium,” announced the Professor. “When I 
come out of a trance, I remember nothing. My 
guide is Red Hawk, an Indian chief. The Indians, 
as you may know, are very psychic.” 

With a gesture of relaxation he closed his eyes. 

35 


36 


HELEN AND WARREN 


His hands rested lightly on the chair arms, his 
head against the upholstered back. 

Every eye was riveted upon him. Helen, who 
had expected a medium to look weird or eccentric, 
was amazed at his youthful jauntiness. 

He might have been a haberdashery salesman. 
His light gray tweed suggested “snappy suits for 
dapper dressers”. His collar, tie, tan silk socks, 
and oxfords were the “latest”. He was fair and 
ruddy, with nothing of the mystic about him. 

After a long silence his lips moved, but only to 
ask prosaically: 

“Will someone play? Music always helps.” 

“There’s your chance,” nudged Warren. “A 
little jazz for the spooks.” 

“No, no,” Helen demurred. “Let someone 
else.” 

“Then we will sing a hymn,” suggested the Pro¬ 
fessor, as no one volunteered. 

Someone started a familiar hymn. Suddenly, 
with a spasmodic twitch, the Professor gripped his 
chair. His head went back, his body jerked, his 
mouth opened, his face flushed. When the sing¬ 
ing stopped, his heavy breathing could be heard. 

“Me, Red Hawk, is here!” in a deep guttural 
voice. “Good evenin’! Say good evenin’, every¬ 
body!” 

An obedient, embarrassed murmur of “Good 
evening” from the circle. 

“Me glad to be here. Me see a big chief standin’ 
by that squaw,” pointing to Mrs. Wilson. “Big 


HELEN AND WARREN 


37 


chief. Big here,” slapping his chest. “Big tree! 
You know my talk? What you call big tree?” 
holding his hand up high. 

“Tall. Tall,” someone suggested. 

“Yah, yah, that it. Tall! Much tall. Nice 
smile. You know that chief?” 

“I—I’m not sure. I think so,” stammered Mrs. 
Wilson. 

“Him went out of earth plane with-” he 

coughed, his hand on his chest. “You know that 
chief?” persistently. “Him say you do.” 

Mrs. Wilson, trying to place the spirit, nodded 
vaguely. 

“Him very quick. No want to wait. Want things 
much hurry. Much impatient.” 

Mrs. Wilson’s face lit up. Her acquaintance had 
included an impatient man! 

“Ah, you know him now! Him say him very 
happy. Much happy than on earth plane. Him 
say will come again. Him want to talk to you 
more. Must go now.” 

Mrs. Wilson was plainly disappointed at the 
brief, indefinite message. 

“Mary! Me get name Mary. Who for?” the 
half-closed eyes swept the circle. 

As Mary was not an unusual name, several faces 
glowed expectantly. 

“Her little squaw. Hair like sun. Eyes like 
sky. You know that Mary?” 

“Possibly,” conceded Mr. Learned, to whom the 
Professor was pointing. 



38 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“What’s poss-su-bu—? Me no know that big 
word. You know this Mary?” 

“Say you think you do,” coached Mrs. Stevens. 
“It helps to be responsive.” 

“Her went out of earth plane quick—too quick! 
Me like that little squaw. Her pretty. Like 
flower. You know?” 

But Mr. Learned did not seem to recognize this 
particular Mary. 

“Maybe not for you. Maybe for that squaw 
next to you. You know Mary?” 

“Yes, but not so young,” Mrs. Learned leaned 
forward. 

“Me not say her young,” quickly. “Me say her 
little. You know?” 

“But she did not pass on suddenly. She was ill 
for months.” 

“Could it be Marie?” asked Mrs. Stevens. “My 
cousin Marie was killed in a motor.” 

“Marie! Yah, yah, Marie. Her for you! 

Went out of earth plane in-” he breathed 

more heavily, “in big wagon. Go by itself— 
no horse!” 

“He means a motor,” whispered Mrs. Stevens. 
“Isn’t that marvellous? Yes, yes, Red Hawk, what 
does she say? Ask her to give me a message.” 

“Her say her happy—much. You must no be 
sorry. Her no want to come back to earth plane. 
Her say her love you much.” 

Mrs. Stevens’ further questions Red Hawk 
silenced with an abrupt: 



HELEN AND WARREN 


39 


“I see spirit chief. Him go straight to that big 
chief there,” pointing to Warren. “Him say him 
name Fred—Fred! You know Fred?” 

Warren’s grunt was unenlightening. 

“Maybe Ed—Ed. You know Ed?” 

“Guess again, old top!” 

“Sh—sh,” pleaded Helen, nudging him. “You 
said you wouldn’t.” 

“Him walk with stick—like this,” stooping over. 
“Him hair like ashes.” 

“Oh, my Uncle Ted had gray hair and walked 
with a cane,” broke in Mrs. Norton. “His name 
was Theodore, but we called him Ted.” 

“Yah, Ted, Ted! Me no get it right first time. 
Him no talk Indian talk. Ted. Him walk with 
stick. Hair like ashes. Him say you got him face 
on paper.” 

“He means a photograph,” explained Mrs. 
Stevens. 

“Yes, I’ve his photograph,” thrilled Mrs. Nor¬ 
ton. “What else does he say?” 

“Me got pain here,” rubbing his leg. “You 
know him got pain here?” 

“Why, he may’ve had rheumatism. He was 
over ninety.” 

“Yah, yah, that it. What you call? Ruma—? 
That it. Him went out to spirit world on sleep 
board. What you call?” 

“He means a bed,” interpreted Mrs. Stevens. 
“He died in bed.” 

“Now what d’you know about that?” amazed 


40 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Warren. “Died in bed! That’s a novelty when 
you’re ninety!” 

A chuckle from Mr. Stevens, and a silencing 
frown from his wife. 

“Hasn’t Uncle Ted any message for me?” Mrs. 
Norton’s voice was tremulous. 

“Him say no more pain here,” rubbing his leg. 
“Now him no walk with stick.” 

“Please ask him if I ought to sell that lot in 
South Orange he left me.” 

“No, me can NO ask questions!” with decided 
irritation. “The spirit him tell you — you no 
must ask. Him go way if you ask. There, him 
gone!” 

The Professor leaned back now, breathing labor¬ 
iously, as though exhausted. 

“Me see a spirit squaw by that squaw in corner,” 
pointing to Helen. “Her little like you. But more 
years. Her much kind. Her love all like him,” 
indicating Sport, now curled up at her feet. “You 
know that squaw?” 

“I—I think so,” faltered Helen, trying to recall 
a deceased relative with the characteristics the 
medium’s half-closed eyes had observed in her. 
“Could—can you get her name?” 

“Me no see name now,” again the note of irrita¬ 
tion. “Maybe her come back with name. Me see 
papoose now. Her by that squaw,” pointing to 
Mrs. Chadwick. 

For over an hour the seance continued. Pro¬ 
fessor Roche obligingly remained in the trance 


HELEN AND WARREN 


41 


until a communication, however brief and indefi¬ 
nite, “was had by all.” 

Certain spirits were placed with difficulty. One 
whose name seemed “Betty” at first, had evidently 
strayed into the wrong circle. For though Red 
Hawk helpfully suggested “maybe Lettie, Nettie, 
Hettie,” even “Hattie” and “Mattie”, there was 
no response, except for Warren’s muttered: 

“How ’bout Fatty?” 

Another spirit, one whose “mouth open big when 
her laugh,” and who had “hair like night” and 
“much curl” could not be placed until Mrs. 
Stevens conveniently remembered her old colored 
“Mammy.” 

All questions barred, for fear of driving away 
the spirits, the messages were conspicuously simi¬ 
lar and unilluminating. Generalities fairly glit¬ 
tered. They were all happy to communicate, and 
all hoped for another opportunity. Their “earth 
plane” illnesses they no longer had. Internal 
trouble seemed the popular cause of demise. But 
as the Professor, in locating the pain, invariably 
rubbed from his throat to his abdomen, the di¬ 
agnosis was frequently correct. 

Red Hawk’s exit was dramatic. He started 
whistling. Then announced, “Me go now. Me 
come again. Good night! Good night!” 

The same twitching and stentorian breathing 
that had preceded the seance, accompanied the 
Professor’s awakening. At last he sat up and 
glanced around. 


42 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“A glass of water, please,” in his natural voice. 
“And you may turn on the lights. It helps me 
come out of the trance.” 

An awkward silence. Plainly he was waiting 
for comments on the seance. “Did Red Hawk 
come tonight?” he inquired. “Did he give any 
messages?” 

“Wonderful messages, Professor!” enthused 
Mrs. Stevens, above the murmured assents. “One 
from my old negro Mammy—and the things he 
told some of the others!” 

“Oh, Professor, could you give a seance at my 
apartment?” purred Mrs. Wilson. “Some evening 
next week?” 

“Here, we’d better beat it before I explode,” 
growled Warren. 

“Now, you can’t be skeptical after that,” glowed 
Mrs. Stevens when they bid her good night. “You 
must admit he told amazing things—things he 
COULDN’T have known.” 

“Most amazing!” grunted Warren, with com¬ 
mendable gravity. 

But safely out in the street his restraint gave way 
to spluttering rage and ridicule. 

“Well of all the bald, cheap frauds! And that 
bunch of fool women lickin’ it up like a cat licks 
cream. ‘Fred! You know Fred? Maybe Ed’,” 
he mimicked. “Or Ted or Ned—or any old name 
you’ll fall for.” 

“Yes, I know, that part wasn’t very convincing,” 
admitted Helen. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


43 


“Convincing? That punk-grammar tommyrot? 
You’d think he’d pull a few good stunts. But that 
gullible bunch’d swallow anything. Beggin’ him 
for another seance next week! Charges twenty- 
five a throw, doesn’t he? Easy coin!” 

“But, dear, so many prominent people believe 
in spiritualism—there must be something in it.” 

“Then they ought to put the kibosh on that cheap 
faker. Red Hawk!” with a snort. “The nerve 
of saddling that line of blab on a decent Indian 
chief. If the real spirit of that old Kickapoo 
should materialize—he’d make it hot for that 
trance-trickster! Get his scalp! Ha, ha. I’d like 
to see a tomahawk chasing that spook-artist. I’d 
cough up the whole twenty-five to sit in at THAT 
seance!” 


Aunt Amelia’s Wedding Present Incites 
Warren to a Disastrous Blunder 

“It’s a square box—way back,” instructed 
Helen, steadying the step-ladder. “No, no, that’s 
a band-box! Wait, you’d better let me get up.” 

Nora shuffled down and Helen climbed up the 
rickety step-ladder to explore the top shelf of the 
hall closet. 

“Here it is! It’s heavy—you’ll have to help me 
lift it down.” 

The dusty box safely deposited on the hall rug, 
Helen took out the hideous gilt clock—their wed¬ 
ding present from Warren’s Aunt Amelia. 

Not daring to give it away, Helen had stowed 
it on the top shelf of the hall closet. Now she was 
dragging it down because Aunt Amelia was in town. 

Only once since their marriage had she been in 
New York. Guilelessly Helen had shown her 
through the apartment, only to be staggered by the 
blunt question: 

“Where’d you put my clock?” 

Always resourceful when cornered, Helen hastily 
explained that it was being regulated. They 
would have it back next week. 

And now, Aunt Amelia again in New York, the 
clock must adorn the library mantel when she came 
to dinner that evening. 


44 


HELEN AND WARREN 


45 


Helen stared at the gilt monstrosity. Two drop¬ 
sical cherubs with swollen abdomens held up the 
oval rhinestone-encircled dial. The pendulum 
which swung between the bloated cupids also glit¬ 
tered with brilliants. 

Would it run? Detaching the key tied to the 
elephantine leg of one of the cherubs, Helen wound 
the clock and started the jeweled pendulum. 

To her delight it ticked on—a creaking, rheu¬ 
matic tick. 

Then she set the hands on the ornate dial and 
with Nora’s help carried it in to the library. Re¬ 
moving from the mantel the antique mahogany 
clock, a real old Sheraton piece, they set in its 
place this rococo monstrosity. 

It fairly shrieked at everything in the room. 
Its hideous gilt ornateness was emphasized by the 
chaste simplicity of Helen’s old-world furniture. 

Aunt Amelia was Warren’s father’s oldest sister 
—a widow, rich and penurious. Had she saved her 
trading stamps to buy that horrible clock? 

Fervently Helen hoped she would not speak of 
the clock—so there would be no need to lie about 
it. It was enough to have it there. 

Promptly at six Aunt Amelia arrived. 

She seemed taller, thinner, more hatchet-faced 
than ever. Her love of the ornate was evident. 
She glittered with gold-filled teeth, jet and jewelry. 
Two diamond breastpins, earrings, and three dia¬ 
mond rings! 

“I can’t stand that window open on my back,” 


46 


HELEN AND WARREN 


was her first complaint when she was settled in the 
library. 

There was no draft but Helen closed the win¬ 
dow and lowered another. 

“Isn’t that a new bookcase? You didn’t have 
that when I was here.” 

“Yes, we brought that from England. Isn’t it 
a wonderful old piece?” 

“Humph, must have cost a lot of money to get 
it over,” disapprovingly. 

“We didn’t have to pay any duty—it’s over a 
hundred years old.” 

“Does the clock run all right?” complacently re¬ 
garding the gilt horror. 

“We’ve never had the least trouble with it,” 
truthfully. 

“You were having it regulated when I was here 
before.” 

“Oh, yes. I forgot—but that’s the only time.” 
Then feeling something more was expected, Helen 
managed an effusive, “We both like it so much.” 

“How bright that gilt’s kept. Looks like it had 
just come out of the box.” 

Was there a note of suspicion in Aunt Amelia’s 
voice? Helen felt her face burn as she nervously 
pyramided lies. 

“It doesn’t tarnish. Now and then I rub it up 
with silver polish.” 

“Silver polish! On a gilt clock? I’d think that 
would ruin it.” 

“It’s a new kind—and I use just a tiny bit. Oh, 


HELEN AND WARREN 


47 


there’s Warren now!” eagerly snatching at this in¬ 
terruption. “I told him to come home early.” 

“Why, Aunt Amelia, you’re looking fine!” was 
his hearty greeting. 

“I haven’t been well,” almost resentfully. “Suf¬ 
fered with sciatica all last winter. I could hardly 
move my left leg. I’m going to Dr. Jordan while 
I’m here. They say he’s the best. Wonder what 
he charges.” 

“Enough,” shrugged Warren. “They all soak 
you.” 

Throughout the dinner Aunt Amelia expatiated 
on her ailments and her experiences with doctors, 
all of whom she claimed had overcharged her. 

“What’s this? Chutney? No, I like it, but it 
doesn’t like me.” 

“Aunt Amelia, if you’d stir around—a long 
walk every day, you could pass up the doctors and 
eat what you want,” helping himself to the Brussels 
sprouts. 

“With my sciatica how can I walk? And I suffer 
so with lumbago-” 

Aunt Amelia was still dissertating on her vari¬ 
ous maladies when, dinner over, they returned to 
the library. 

Warren was plainly bored, but, having failed to 
change the subject, he listened resignedly to a vol¬ 
uble account of Aunt Amelia’s operation for gall 
stones. 

In the midst of this Helen saw him stare at the 
library clock. Vainly she tried to catch his eye, 



48 


HELEN AND WARREN 


riveted unbelievingly on this bedizened atrocity. 

“For the love of Lulu! Where’d you get that 
damned thing?” 

Aunt Amelia stopped short. A paralyzing 
pause! 

“You mean that old candlestick?” with frantic 
telegraphic glances. “I found that at an antique 
shop the other day. It was so reasonable-” 

“I mean that clock!” with a snort. “Of all the 
garish junk-” 

“That’s Warren’s idea of humor,” laughed 
Helen shrilly. “He’s always saying absurd things 
like that. He knows we’re both crazy about that 
clock—ever since you gave it to us. He’s just 
trying to tease you.” 

“Oh, he is?” an ominous note in Aunt Amelia’s 
voice. 

“Do you know what he did the other day?” 
desperately Helen rattled on, trying to bolster up 
her lie. “Why—he—he asked a minister if he 
knew of ‘a reliable bootlegger where he could get 
some booze’.” 

Helen paused for breath. Imploringly she 
glanced at Warren, but his head was bent over the 
pipe he was cleaning. Never adept at lying, he 
could not help her out. 

“And Aunt Amelia, that minister was furious! 
He wouldn’t believe it was a joke. You said Warren 
visited you one summer when he was little—was 
he like that then? Did he say those absurd things 
and think them funny?” 




HELEN AND WARREN 49 

“Not to my knowledge,” Aunt Amelia’s voice 
was still frigid. 

“I venture he was always getting into mischief,” 
persisted Helen. “You know he just loves to say 
things to shock people. The most atrocious things, 
without a grain of truth in them! Now don’t you, 
Warren? Admit you do!” 

“That’s right,” he contrived a grin. “Guess I’ve 
got a rotten idea of humor.” Then abruptly, 
“Where’s that cherry bounce we made last sum¬ 
mer? Maybe Aunt Amelia would like a glass.” 

“Oh, I’m sure she would,” Helen rose eagerly. 

“No, I’ll get it. Where is it? Sideboard?” 

Helen shot him an indignant glance. It was 
like him to make this ghastly break, then escape 
and leave her to smooth it over. 

“You were telling us about your operation for 
gall stones,” hoping to steer Aunt Amelia back to 
this all-absorbing subject. 

But apparently Aunt Amelia was thinking hard. 
She kept glancing at the clock as she sipped her 
after-dinner coffee. 

Helen was desperate. Should she invent further 
stories to prove Warren’s absurd idea of humor? 
No, that might make it seem more suspicious. Bet¬ 
ter pass it over and get Aunt Amelia back to the 
gall stones. 

“Did you have many gall stones?” she chanced, 
knowing so little about them. 

“Only one, but it was very large—as big as a 


50 HELEN AND WARREN 

hen’s egg. The doctor said the largest he’d ever 

seen.” 

“Why, Aunt Amelia, how DREADFUL! Dear,” 
as Warren appeared with the cherry bounce, “Aunt 
Amelia said her gall stone was as large as a 
hen’s egg—the doctor said the largest he’d ever 
seen.” 

“Yes, both doctors said that,” even Aunt Ame¬ 
lia’s suspicions could not keep her from dilating 
on the size of her gall stone. 

Helen, professing a breathless interest, urged 
her to further details. 

“Did the ether make you sick? How long were 
you under it?” 

Adroitly led on, Aunt Amelia dwelt verbosely 
on the operation. How she suffered when they 
dressed the wound, and twisted the tubes that 
drained the bile. Yet they said they never had a 
patient who stood pain so well. 

Every detail of the operation finally exhausted, 
Helen led her back to the sciatica, which lasted 
until her taxi was announced. 

Instead of merely seeing Aunt Amelia to the 
elevator, Warren took her down and put her into 
the cab. 

The moment the door closed after them, Helen 
wished she had gone down too. What if Aunt 
Amelia, still suspicious, should say something about 
the clock? Warren, who could never dissemble, 
would blunderingly give the whole thing away. 

“Is it all right?” was her tense greeting when 


HELEN AND WARREN 51 

he returned. “Did she say anything more about 
the clock?” 

“.No, but she didn’t quite swallow that yarn 
you tried to put over.” 

“It was the only thing I could think of. Oh, 
how could you make that awful break? The way 
you blurted it out!” 

“How the Sam Hill was I to know? I’d for¬ 
gotten she’d given us the blooming thing! Why 
in blazes did you have to plant it on the mantel?” 

“Because the last time she was here she asked 
for it!” excitedly. “I had to lie and say we were 
having it repaired.” 

“By George, that’s so! I’d forgotten that.” 

“Oh, you’re hopeless! You’re always making 
some dreadful blunder—and I have to smooth it 
over.” 

“You didn’t smooth this over so blamed well,” 
glaring at the offending clock. “That was a mighty 
thin story you cooked up.” 

“I had to say something—you wouldn’t! It saved 
a scene.” 

“Yes, that was pretty awkward, Kitten,” with a 
relaxing grin. “A tight hole to crawl out of. Best 
thing you did was to steer her back to the gall 
stones. But next time you drag out any old wed¬ 
ding presents, tip me off. Don’t try to ppll any¬ 
thing like that without putting me wise!” 


Warren Proves a Disgruntled Guide to 
the “Arty” Lures of Greenwich 
Village 

“The Zippy Zebra” was the faded blaek-and- 
orange lettering over the cavernous basement. But 
the door was barred and the dusty window dark 
and curtainless. 

“That animal’s defunct,” shrugged Warren. 
“Now where?” 

“There’re a lot more,” Helen consulted her clip¬ 
ping, “Where to Dine in Greenwich Village.” 
“Here’s the ‘Jazzy Jug—Full of Pep Patrons and 
Pippins. An Intriguing Hostess’. That sounds 
interesting.” 

“Hope it’s not far,” complained Mrs. Stanley. 
“I can’t walk much farther.” 

“Just the next street. Doesn’t give the num¬ 
ber—but it can’t be far.” 

“Hot night for slumming,” Mr. Stanley mopped 
his heated face. 

“I thought you wanted to see the Village,” re¬ 
sented Helen. 

“Oh, we do! I’m sure it’s most interesting. 
John’s always cross when he’s tired,” apologized 
Mrs. Stanley. “And he didn’t have his tea today.” 

“Tea?” scoffed Warren. 

“You New Yorkers are too busy for afternoon 
52 


HELEN AND WARREN 


53 


tea,” laughed Mrs. Stanley. “The way you rush 
over here! It’s amazing—your bustling energy.” 

Having given the whole afternoon to steering 
their English friends through the sights of New 
York, Helen resented their covert criticism. 

“Well, cheer up, here we are,” Warren swung 
his cane at the “Jazzy Jug” sign just ahead. 
“Doesn’t look much like the Cafe Royale or Picca¬ 
dilly Grill.” 

As they drew nearer, Helen’s heart sank. The 
greasy basement of the tumbled house was not 
alluring. Only a dim light shone from the low 
doorway. 

“We can’t eat in this joint,” blurted Warren. 
“Be afraid of the food.” 

“Why, dear, they play up this old careless 
atmosphere—that’s part of it. Oh, look, it says 
‘Dinner in the Garden’—that sounds nice and 
cool.” 

“What d’you think, Stanley?” queried Warren. 
“Want to chance it?” 

“We’ll have to! My feet hurt so,” wailed Mrs. 
Stanley. “I just can’t go any further.” 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” sympathized Helen. “Why 
didn’t you tell us?” 

“I’ll be all right if I can just sit down,” limping 
through the doorway. 

The low, sawdusted room with its red tables 
and yellow chairs was empty. But following the 
sound of voices, they came to a small cluttered 
kitchen. 


54 HELEN AND WARREN 

“How do we get out to that garden?” demanded 
Warren. 

“Right through here,” gruffed the gaunt, shirt¬ 
sleeved, collarless cook. 

Helen, looking straight ahead, tried not to see 
the soiled dishes and dubious dish towels. 

“Why ‘garden’?” muttered Warren, as they 
came out into a small, undisguised back yard, 
crowded with rough, weather-worn tables and 
benches. 

From a vociferous group in the comer rose the 
hostess—dark, foreign, a red bandeau around her 
black, oily hair, a purple gown, and barbaric 
earrings. 

“How many? Four?” her voice startlingly deep 
and raucous. “This table.” 

“Perhaps we’d better have just a drink,” 
whispered Helen, her courage weakening. 

“Best food in the Village,” vaunted the woman, 
sensing their reluctance. 

“A la carte?” demanded Warren. 

“No, just the one dinner—antipasto, soup, and 
veal with rice.” 

“Rum dinner for a hot night,” was Warren’s 
ungracious comment. 

“Oh, let’s eat!” Mr. Stanley, not having had his 
tea, was disgruntled. 

“It’s quite a famous place,” encouraged Helen, 
as the woman, taking their order for granted, 
retreated. “Some interesting people may drop in 
later.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


55 


“What are those supposed to be? Trees?” 
Mrs. Stanley was viewing the weird monstrosities 
with which some Village artist had decorated the 
fence. 

“More like tipsy toad-stools,” grunted Warren. 
“Hello, lamp that ice-box!” 

The ice-box, crowded out of the tiny kitchen into 
the yard, required the frequent informal appear¬ 
ance of the red-faced brigand cook. 

“Those geraniums in those salt boxes! What a 
curious idea!” 

Half a dozen kitchen salt boxes, lettered 
“SALT”, hung from nails along the fence, each 
holding a discouraged geranium plant. 

“A breeze!” Mrs. Stanley ceased fanning with 
her “Seeing New York” guide. 

“It’s really much cooler out here than any indoor 
place,” Helen, who felt unhappily responsible, 
grasped at every alleviating note. 

“Don’t lean against that fence, John! Look at 
your coat.” 

“No back to these bally benches.” 

“You’d have enjoyed an uptown restaurant 
more,” regretted Helen. 

“Not at all,” protested Mrs. Stanley politely. 
“So this is New York’s Latin Quarter? It’s most 
unique,” gazing around the unsightly back yard. 

An old ladder, a flapping clothes-line, a rusty 
wash-boiler, contributed to the “undefiled atmo¬ 
sphere”. Any pretense at decoration had been 
scorned. Even candlesticks were tabooed. The 


56 


HELEN AND WARREN 


candles, stuck in old bottles, spluttered weirdly. 

Through the dejected, withered vines that failed 
to screen the open window, they caught intimate 
glimpses of the kitchen. 

“I’d give five shillings for a pint of stout,” 
offered Mr. Stanley. 

“Guess you’d give more than that,” grinned 
Warren. 

Their spirits were slightly lifted by a generous 
plate of sardines, pimentoes, radishes, olives, 
salami, and sliced tomatoes. 

The thickish soup served in crude earthenware 
bowls was surprisingly good. 

Their strenuous sight-seeing afternoon had left 
them undiscriminatingly hungry. Even Helen, 
always finicky, dispatched her soup with relish. 

A chorus of greetings from the group in the 
corner as another couple entered—a girl in a 
dizzy, batik blouse with a neurotic cadaverous 
youth. 

“How’s old Bob? How’s he feeling tonight?” 

“Putrid,” accepting a cigarette. 

“How’s the play? Got that third act yet?” 

“No. I’m stuck. Atrophy of the cerebral 
sphere.” 

“Hullo, Bob,” the “intriguing hostess” joined 
them. “Seen anything of Bill Mason? Was he 
drunk? Well, he is now—celebrating that nude 
he sold. Got a bun on over at Daffy Dave’s— 
spouted Virgil with a table cloth draped around 
him. A scream!” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


57 


“That girl hasn’t any stockings!” whispered 
Helen. “That design’s stenciled on her ankles. 
I read about it but I didn’t think they really did it.” 

“What’s that?” Mr. Stanley shed his bored apart¬ 
ness. 

“Now never mind, John, you finish your soup.” 

The place was filling up. The girls with half- 
portioned hair, Tut earrings, vermilioned lips, and 
sandals. Everyone knew everyone—an intimate 
coterie. Most of them having dined, had dropped 
in to the “Jazzy Jug” for coffee. 

In the general buzz Helen caught disconnected 
phrases. 

“Ultra-modernist aesthetes . . . bourgeois social¬ 
ists . . . dilettanteish . . . psychoanalysis . . . erotic 
. . . complex—Freud . . . soul spirit . . . shackle¬ 
breaking intelligentsia . . . sanctum of self-expres¬ 
sion . . . kinetic vibrations.” 

Suddenly a long-shanked vagabond, with a 
saturnine expression, stood up on his bench and 
recited. Sonorous, meaningless lines—impassioned 
vaporings on “A Soul Untrammeled.” 

After the applauding howls, he stepped down 
and passed his shabby hat. 

“Guess that’s worth a quarter,” Warren thrust 
his hand into his pocket. 

“Kitty, kitty, kitty,” Helen flirted with a big 
gray cat promenading the fence. “Oh, you’d be 
lovely if you weren’t so dirty,” when it finally came 
down to the lure of the veal she could not eat. 

“Tough as rubber,” Warren was struggling with 


58 


HELEN AND WARREN 


his portion. “Guess their ‘pep patrons’ get their 
chow elsewhere.” 

The dessert, a mixture of gritty stewed figs, 
prunes and apricots, was still hot, apparently an 
emergency dish. 

But the thick, rich Turkish coffee was delicious. 

“My word, that’s topping coffee!” Mr. Stanley’s 
first commendation. 

“We should’ve dined at a regular place and 
come here just for coffee.” 

“Why, dear, it wasn’t so bad,” demurred 
Helen, still in her propitiatory role. “And it’s 
quite cool out here. We might’ve done much 
worse.” 

“Well, let’s move on. Who d’you pay? That 
pirate in the kitchen?” 

“Why, no, I imagine you pay her. There’s no 
menu—I suppose she’ll charge whatever she 
chooses,” anxioused Helen. 

“Going so early?” the hostess left her table. 
“Things haven’t started yet. Billy Bobson’s com¬ 
ing over with his ukulele and Podgy Peter’ll be 
’round.” 

But not lured by these attractions, Warren drew 
out his wallet. 

The bill paid, Helen still in apprehensive igno¬ 
rance of the amount, they made their way back 
through the stifling cookery, and out to the 
street. 

“It was rather interesting, don’t you think?” 
Helen broke the awkward silence. 


HELEN AND WARREN 59 

“Oh, very,” politely assented Mrs. Stanley. 
“And most unusual!” 

“What next? Guess we’re all fed up with this 
flap-doodle,” glummed Warren. “Let’s get back to 
civilization. We’ll take a taxi.” 

“The top of a bus is much cooler,” suggested 
Helen, economically. “And you can see so much 
more. We can get one at Washington Square.” 

But the warm night had crowded the buses, and 
there was a constrained disconcerting ten minutes’ 
wait before they managed to scramble on. 

“Only two on top,” shouted the conductor. 

“You take those,” urged Helen. “We’ll go 
inside.” 

As the Stanleys climbed up top, Helen, glad of a 
few moments’ relief from the strain of entertaining 
them, followed Warren inside. 

“Oh, I’m almost dead!” dropping wearily into a 
seat. “We’ve given them the whole day—and 
they’re so unappreciative! I think he was horrid 
at dinner!” 

“You dragged ’em down here! They didn’t 
want to slum around. Don’t expect people from the 
smartest part of Mayfair to gush over the ‘Jazzy 
Jug’, do you?” 

“Why she kept saying they MUST see Green¬ 
wich Village—she’d read so much about it. And 
she wants to see Chinatown, too—you heard her 
say that! Dear, DO we have to take them there?” 

“You bet we don’t!” grimly. “If they can’t bum 
around on their own—let ’em hire a guide. Next 


60 HELEN AND WARREN 

time anybody comes to New York—they’ll stand 
a fat chance of us trotting ’em around. I’m fed up 
with sightseeing!” with an irate jab of his cane. 
“This dose of rubbernecking will last me for some 
time!” 


Helen’s Flurried Preparations for a 
Luxurious Trip on a Private Car 

Her suede pumps and Warren’s brushes must 
still go in! And already the suitcase was bulg¬ 
ing. 

His leather collar box took up so much room! 
Finally fitting in the collars without the box, 
Helen made space for the slippers and brushes. 

A four-day trip to Detroit, with only her over¬ 
night bag, which held so little, and one suitcase! 
She wanted to take another, but Warren, who 
loathed bothering with luggage, insisted one was 
enough. 

A hurried business trip—he had said she could 
go if she did not make a “lot of fuss” and take 
a “lot of traps.” 

They were leaving on the four-thirty. She 
hoped Warren would come in time to change his 
suit. She had laid out his gray tweed. 

A bang of the hall door! 

Dropping a suit hanger, Helen ran out to greet 
him. 

“Oh, I’m glad you’ve come early! You’ll have 
time to change.” 

“Got to call up the office first. Forgot to tell 
Miss Lone about those Clements papers. Here, 
put these in,” handing her a familiar flat pack¬ 
age. 


62 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Only one suitcase, yet he must take the inevit¬ 
able box of cigars. 

She managed to force it in by taking out one of 
the military brushes and fitting her bedroom slip¬ 
pers inside of his. 

She was laying out his fresh underwear when he 
came in from the ’phone. 

“Dear, did you get a section?” 

“Nope,” he peeled off his coat. 

“Oh, you had to take upper berths?” rejecting 
an undershirt minus a button. 

“Guess again,” ripping off his collar. 

“Warren, you didn’t get a stateroom? Oh, that’s 
so extravagant! I’d much rather have the money 
for something else.” 

“Now you needn’t throw a fit! I didn’t get a 
stateroom.” 

“You mean everything’s taken? We’ll have to 
sit up all night?” dismayed. 

“Not much, we won’t!” he grinned. 

“Oh, dear, don’t tease me. How ARE we 
going?” 

“On a private car.” 

“A private car?” dropping the cuff-button she 
was putting in his shirt. 

“Yes, Kane decided he’d better go along.” 

“A private car!” awed at this supreme luxury. 
“Has he a private car?” 

“He’s a director of the B. & W. road—taking the 
president’s car. Wants to see that property him¬ 
self before he buys it.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


63 


“When did you know this?” tensely. 

“His secretary ’phoned this morning,” care¬ 
lessly, scooping out the money and keys from 
his trouser pockets. 

“And you didn’t call me up? You knew we 
were going on this private car—and you didn’t 
tell me!” 

“I’m telling you now! What’re you beefing 
about?” 

“You’d let me go without any clothes? With 
only one suitcase for us both on a private car!” 

“What the Sam Hill’s that got to do with it? 
What’d you want to take—a lot of ball gowns?” 

Ignoring this derision, Helen climbed up on the 
chair which she had dragged to the closet. 

“What are you trying to do now?” 

“I’m going to take that other suitcase!” vehem¬ 
ently. “I’m NOT going in a private car without 
any clothes!” 

“Hold on, there, I’ll get it! Don’t you know bet¬ 
ter than to stand on the back of a chair? That’s 
a fine way to break your neck!” 

Hauling down the suitcase, he flung it on the bed. 

“There you are! Now take all the fool frills 
you can cram in!” 

“You might’ve let me know this morning,” re¬ 
sentfully, as she dusted the bag. “You never want 
me to take anything! If we went around the world, 
you wouldn’t want more than one suitcase!” 

“You bet I wouldn’t! All I need’s a collar and 
a toothbrush!” as he slammed into the bathroom. 


64 


HELEN AND WARREN 


With flurried haste and indecision Helen laid out 
the clothes she thought necessary for the exclu¬ 
sive luxury of a private car. If she had only 
known this morning. She had less than an hour 
now. The navy suit that had seemed quite good 
enough for a dusty sleeper was promptly changed 
for her light gray with the plaited skirt. A dinner 
gown and an evening gown and wrap were hur¬ 
riedly added. 

As to just what should be worn on a private 
car Helen was vaguely uncertain. To be safe she 
would take as many things as possible. 

“Who else is going?” anxiously, as Warren 
emerged from the bathroom. 

“Mrs. Kane, Dr. Rosenbach, another director, 
and Kane’s secretary. We’ll have a ripping trip!” 

“Mrs. Kane? What’s she like? Is she very 
dressy?” 

“Never noticed,” with maddening indifference. 
“Got those cigars in?” 

“Yes, in the other case. Dear, I’ve put in your 
dinner coat. You ought to have your brown suit, 
too. If we could take that old grip I could get it 
in.” 

“For the love of Lulu! Want to take all the 
luggage in the place just for a four-day trip?” 

“But on a private car—you don’t know what 
we’ll need.” 

“Well, I won’t need another suit. Can’t wear but 
one at a time—even on a private car!” derisively. 
“Got in my shaving things? Last time you took 


HELEN AND WARREN 65 

along a lot of traps you didn’t need—and left out 
my shaving brush.” 

“It’s in now. Look, dear, she knows we’re go¬ 
ing,” as Pussy Purr-Mew sniffed at their bags. “I 
must tell Nora not to feed her too much. That 
time we went to Boston she made her sick. Just 
stuffed her!” 

“Now you’d better hustle. Only got twenty 
minutes.” Warren was dressing with his usual 
not-a-wasted-movement celerity. 

Had she everything in? Stockings and slippers 
for the gowns she was taking? Gloves—and her 
best handkerchiefs? Oh, she must take her long 
Paris veil! Too good for ordinary travel—but 
ideal for a private car. 

And her toilet things? A hasty scrutiny of her 
fitted overnight bag. Tooth paste, powder, cold 
cream, hairpins and curlers. She wished she could 
take her electric curling iron—but there was no 
room. 

“Almost ready? I’m going to order the taxi,” 
warned Warren. 

While he was at the telephone Helen flew out to 
give Nora final instructions. 

“Now take good care of everything. We’ll be 
back Friday night. Don’t feed Pussy Purr-Mew too 
much—no raw meat! Draw all the shades—the 
sun fades the rugs. Be careful about that range— 
but you won’t use the oven. Bolt the front door 
as we go out. Leave a note for the milkman, and 
be sure to-” 



66 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“These bags ready to strap?” shouted Warren. 

“Right away, dear, I’m coming! Yes, they’re 
both ready,” darting back to the bedroom. “Be 
careful, that buckle’s loose—I must have that 
fixed.” 

“Sure you got everything in? I’ll not open ’em 
again,” grimly. 

“Yes, everything. Oh, hair nets! I knew there 
was something! No, not in there—they go in my 
small case.” 

“That confounded telephone!” 

“I’ll answer it—you strap those,” as she flew 
into the library. 

“Oh, hello, Carrie! . . . Friday night. We’re just 
starting now. We’re going in a PRIVATE car! . . . 
Mr. Kane—he’s one of the directors of the B. & 
W. road. . . . Why I thought you knew Warren was 
his attorney. Oh, it’s going to be a luxurious trip 
—just five in a wonderful private car!” 

“Stop blowing!” shouted Warren. “Come, take 
out some of this stuff. I can’t close this blooming 
case!” 

So seldom had Helen a chance to impress her 
supercilious sister-in-law, that she had not been 
able to resist this rare opportunity. 

But now, flushed and disconcerted that Warren 
had heard her, she came back to re-arrange the 
things in the overcrowded suitcase. 

“What’d Carrie want?” he stood truculently over 
her. 

“She wanted to know if we’d be back by Sun- 


HELEN AND WARREN 


67 


day,” recklessly creasing her gowns. “I suppose 
they’re coming in—and we’ll be so tired. They 
were just here Sunday before last,” resentfully. 
“Dear, it’s too much!” 

“Now don’t stop to fuss about that! You got 
just five minutes!” 

Then followed the usual hectic last-minute rush. 
With final anxious emphasis, she again cautioned 
Nora to “take care of everything.” 

They were out at the elevator when she dashed 
back to make sure she had locked the hall closet— 
the depository for their few bottles of wine and 
other valuables. 

“Now what’ve you forgotten?” was Warren’s 
ironic demand when they were finally whirled off 
in the taxi. “Your lip stick or powder puff? Great 
tragedy!” 

This stock remark whenever they started off no 
longer annoyed her. 

“I don’t think I’ve forgotten a thing!” adjust¬ 
ing her veil by the reflector. 

Restoring an elusive hairpin, her rings caught 
on her net. This trivial incident evoked a panicky 
gasp of dismay. 

“Eh, what is it? Knew you left something!” 
lighting a cigar with an exasperating chuckle. 

“Those hair nets! That telephone rang just as 
I started to put them in! But any drug store has 
them,” excitedly peering out the window. “Oh, 
that’s one over there! Tell him to stop!” 

“No you don’t!” jerking back her hand as she 


68 


HELEN AND WARREN 


rapped on the glass. “Go ahead! Step on it!” 
with a peremptory wave to the driver. 

“It won’t take a minute! And this one’s torn. 
I MUST get some!” 

“Nothing doing,” inexorably. “If you hadn’t 
spent so much time blowing to Carrie about that 
private car—you’d have got ’em in.” 

“But, Warren, I can’t keep my hair up without 
them!” frantically. 

“You can’t, eh? Then wear it down your back! 
I’ll not take a chance on missing that train for your 
fool hair nets. This is a business trip. You’re not 
going to be presented at court. Nobody cares a 
hoot how you look, anyway!” 


Helen’s Dubious Enjoyment of the 
Exclusive Luxury of a Private Car 

“Pullman, sah? What’s yo’ numba?” flung 
back their bag-laden porter as he led them through 
the crowded station. 

“Car 999,” crisped Warren. 

“999?” an incredulous smirk on his ebony face. 

“It’s a private car,” broke in Helen. “Mr. 
Kane’s private car!” 

Instantly the swaggering Ethiopian became ab¬ 
jectly servile. Every brass button now exuding 
deference, he ushered them out through the gates. 

“Where’s Mr. Kane’s private car?” he demanded 
of a platform official. 

“Track 6,” the official touched his cap to War¬ 
ren. 

The end car on Track 6 was a long, sleek, dark 
green coach, without the usual magniloquent Pull¬ 
man name—only the magic figures “999.” 

Even the buff linen shades that kept out pry¬ 
ing glances imparted an air of aloof exclusive¬ 
ness. 

An astute West India porter stood by the car 
awaiting Mr. Kane’s guests. 

“Mr. Kane not here?” asked Warren as they 
entered the observation lounge. 

“Not yet, sir. His man just brought down his 
69 


70 


HELEN AND WARREN 


bags.” Then, imperiously to the station porter, 
who still had their suitcases, “Right on back!” 

“Well, this’s something like!” Warren dropped 
into a deep leather chair. “Pretty smooth, eh?” 
glancing around the luxurious car. 

“I wish we hadn’t come so early,” anxioused 
Helen. “I hate to be the first here.” 

“Early? The rest of the bunch are late. Pull 
out in ten minutes,” glancing at the clock impan¬ 
eled over the door. “Here they come now.” 

Mr. Kane, tall, iron gray, august, greeted 
them cordially, introducing Dr. Rosenbach and 
Mr. Winslow to Helen. 

“No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Kane’s not coming. Her 
sister’s quite ill.” 

Helen repressed a gasp of dismay. To be the 
only woman on this four-day trip with four men! 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kane,” an official entered. 
“Your party all here?” 

“Yes, we’re all here. Briggs, all the bags 
aboard?” 

“Yes, sir, in the staterooms. Here’s a couple 
of telegrams.” 

With a careless glance at the yellow envelopes, 
Mr. Kane thrust them unopened into his pocket. 

As the train drew out Helen, feeling awkward 
and insignificant, snuggled into the far corner of 
the leather couch, behind a shielding armchair. 

If she could slip unnoticed into their stateroom! 
Where was it? Unfamiliar with the anatomy of a 
private car, she feared to betray her ignorance. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


71 


Perhaps she was less conspicuous where she was. 
Trying to seem absorbed in the straggling suburbs, 
she gazed out of the window beside her. 

“Mrs. Curtis, there are some books here that 
may amuse you,” suggested Mr. Kane. “Briggs, 
bring in that package.” 

The package opened disclosed eight new detec¬ 
tive and mystery novels. 

But Helen made only a pretense at reading. She 
was much more interested in the appointments of a 
private car. 

In this observation end were six leather arm¬ 
chairs, a couch and two convertible desk-card 
tables. 

A telephone, an electric fan, shaded reading 
lamps, a wall speedometer, a barometer and 
thermometer were part of the elaborate wall fit¬ 
tings. The eight broad windows were equipped 
with shades, screens and wire glass. 

The attentive Briggs now appeared with cigars 
and mineral water. 

“Will you have still or charged water?” solicit¬ 
ously, to Helen. 

“Still, please. No, thank you,” refusing the prof¬ 
fered cigarettes. 

“Last year we carried only 48 per cent, of our 
freight cars loaded. It’s hauling the empties that 
eats into the net profit.” 

From the conversation that followed Helen 
learned much about freight traffic. 

Every road had the right to use the box or flat 


72 


HELEN AND WARREN 


cars of every other road for the universal rate of 
a dollar a day each. They could be taken from any 
freight yard or side track throughout the country 
and left wherever unloaded. 

A long freight train lumbering by, made up of 
cars from many roads, was evidence of this inter¬ 
changeable system. 

Taking advantage of their absorption in rail¬ 
road economics, Helen finally slipped out to locate 
their suitcases. 

The doors of the three staterooms open, she 
found their bags in the third. 

It was much like the drawing-room section of 
any Pullman car, with the added luxury of a 
five-drawer dressing table and a wardrobe. 

Over the door hummed an electric fan. By the 
couch berth was a telephone and the same system 
of call buttons as in the observation lounge. 

What time would they dine? It was now after six. 
Should she dress? Was that the custom of a private 
car, as on an ocean liner? 

Her things unpacked and distributed in the 
towel-lined drawers, she decided to slip on her 
mauve crepe, which was semi-evening. 

“Yes, dear, just a second,” unbolting the door 
to Warren’s impatient rattling. “Oh, I’m glad 
you’ve come in! Are you going to dress?” 

“Dress? You don’t dress on a train!” turning 
on the water in the gleaming basin. 

“I thought you might on a private car. Does 
this look too much?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


73 


“Oh, you’re all right,” soaping his hands with¬ 
out a glance toward her. “Hello, lamp that ward¬ 
robe! Pretty nifty layout. This is the way to 
travel.” 

“It’s wonderful, but I—I feel so out of place 
with just you four men.” 

“That’s all right. You can play around. 
Where’re my collars?” 

Whatever his surroundings, Warren was never 
impressed nor disconcerted. He could have dined 
with all the potentates of Europe with perfect non¬ 
chalance. His imperturbable ease Helen always 
envied, for so often, as now, she felt painfully self- 
conscious and awkward. 

The buzz of their telephone, and the porter’s 
voice, “Dinner’s served.” 

“Wait, dear, wait for me,” as Warren, with a 
careless brush of his hair, started out. “And we 
don’t want to be the first at the table.” 

“Why not? I’m ready for food. Bet they’ve a 
darn good chef on this car.” 

“Oh, aren’t we served from the regular diner?” 
powdering her arms. 

“Not much! Kane carries his own cook and 
porter. Ready?” 

The dining room radiated opulence with its 
polished woodwork, mirrors, fitted china closet, 
silver-laden sideboard and table. 

“Mrs. Curtis, will you sit here?” Mr. Kane, tak¬ 
ing the armchair at the end, placed Helen at his 
right. 


74 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Mr. Winslow sat beside her. Warren opposite, 
and Dr. Rosenbach next to him. 

“How many can you take on this car?” asked 
Warren. 

“Six, comfortably—there’re only three state¬ 
rooms. But we can take eight if we make up this 
couch here and the one in the observation.” 

“Do you ever rent this car?” inquired the doc¬ 
tor. 

“Not this one, but there’re some you can rent.” 

“How much?” Warren reached for an olive. 

“Twenty-five regular fares besides the rent of 
the car—I forget what that is. Harmon, after he 
made that clean-up in copper took a party of eight 
down to Florida—cost him about five thousand for 
two weeks.” 

Wall Street, bond issues, reorganizations—their 
careless intimate discussion of big deals increased 
Helen’s sense of insignificance. 

The dinner, perfectly served by the exemplary 
Briggs, was simple but substantial. There were 
no frills, essentially a man’s dinner: cantaloupe, 
roast beef, asparagus, boiled onions, souffle pota¬ 
toes, salad and an ice. 

After the coffee, served in the observation 
lounge, Helen slipped out of the screen door and 
stood on the platform. 

A velvety, moonlit night, the air redolent with 
the dew-drenched fields. 

“Would you like a chair?” Mr. Kane came to 
the door. “Briggs will get you one.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


75 


It was enchanting out there, watching the track 
that seemed an endless ladder slipping back from 
under them. 

The glint of moon-streaked water as they thun¬ 
dered over a bridge, the firefly motors on distant 
roads, the winking lights from farmhouse win¬ 
dows, the small villages through which they shot 
with the arrogant speed of a “limited”. 

But even the witchery of it all failed to lure 
Helen from a deepening depression. The world- 
of-affairs prominence of these men increased her 
sense of insignificance. Achievement, success, 
power, were heights unattainable to her. 

A feverish ambition consumed her; a passionate 
protest against the narrow limitations of hum¬ 
drum domesticity. 

“Hello, Kitten!” The screen door brushed 
against her as Warren swung out. “Jove, it’s a 
bully night! Look at that moon! Speeding up 
along here; over sixty miles an hour. Great trip, 
what? Glad you came?” 

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. Dear, I feel 
so—so in the way.” 

“Now don’t get any of your fool notions. You’ve 
made a hit with Kane.” 

“How do you know?” eagerly. “What makes 
you think so?” 

“Didn’t you hear what he just said?” compla¬ 
cently puffing his cigar, a glow in the darkness. 
“Wants to take us up to Canada next summer; 
a ten-day trip.” 


76 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“But I was so stupid at dinner! I couldn’t think 
of a thing to say.” 

“So much the better. He’s fed up with garrulous 
females. They took some woman novelist out to the 
coast, and she bored ’em stiff. Tried to scintillate 
every minute—kept tooting her own horn. You’re 
all right, Kitten; he likes ’em quiet.” 

Rumpling her hair with a careless caress, he 
swung back through the screen door. 

So in a private car guest a modest effacement 
was preferable to an assertive brilliancy! After 
the loquacious, self-laudatory woman novelist, a 
mouse-like retirement was an asset. 

With a faintly ironic smile, Helen gazed back 
at the ink-shadowed fields. After all, there were 
compensations. Her retiring diffidence, which she 
had vainly striven to overcome, had made her a 
desirable guest. 

For the rest of the trip it would be a relief to 
know that, from her, no conversational scintilla¬ 
tions were expected or desired. If not a flattering, 
it was at least a restful role! 


A Box of Flowers Exposes an Embarrass¬ 
ing Subterfuge of Feminine Economy 

“And Nora’s out!” dismayed Helen. “Dear, 
won’t you go?” 

Throwing down his paper, grumblingly War¬ 
ren rose to answer the bell. 

“That stupid boy! I told him to announce every¬ 
one,” darting to her room. 

Standing back of the door, she listened, ready 
to slip into another gown. 

“You needn’t doll up,” called Warren a moment 
later. “Just some flowers.” 

“Flowers?” Now in the hall, Helen took the 
long florist box. “For me?” 

“Guess nobody’s ‘saying it with flowers’ to me!” 
shrugged Warren, turning back to the library. 

“I wonder who they’re from?” following him 
in with the box. 

“Might open it and find out,” ironically, taking 
up his paper. 

But with feminine perverseness, Helen pro¬ 
longed the delicious uncertainty. There was no 
address on the long, white box lid, only the gilt- 
lettered, “A. Warendorff—Florist.” 

The string and tag must have slipped off. Yet 
without an address how could it have been de¬ 
livered? 

The lid raised at last disclosed a card beneath 


78 


HELEN AND WARREN 


the waxed paper that veiled the long-stemmed roses. 

From Mrs. Armstrong! On her card was the 
penciled message: 

For Mrs. Curtis 
In appreciation of 
her many kindnesses. 

“Dear, look—from Mrs. Armstrong! How nice 
of her. My ‘many kindnesses’. I suppose she 
means my vacuum cleaner. Look, aren’t they 
lovely?” 

“Um-m,” without glancing up. 

“Why these must’ve cost five or six dollars! 
She can’t be so close as they say. Wasn’t it dear of 
her?” 

Out in the pantry Helen took down the tall, 
over-ornate cut-glass vase that she kept out of sight 
unless needed for flowers. A Christmas present 
from Warren’s Aunt Amelia. The gaudy cut de¬ 
sign suggested a trading-stamp premium. 

As Helen filled the vase and sprinkled a little 
salt in the water her thoughts revolved about Mrs. 
Armstrong. 

Repeated borrowing of the vacuum, instead of 
buying one, and the unflattering stories circulated 
by Mrs. Armstrong’s maid, had confirmed her 
reputation for painful economy. Yet, surely, no 
one with parsimonious tendencies would order a 
dozen American Beauties! 

Lifting them out under the strong glare of the 


HELEN AND WARREN 


79 


sixty-watt pantry light, Helen noticed that the outer 
petals of the heavy crimson buds were slightly 
wilted. And there were not a dozen—only eleven! 

Had one been extracted from the untied box? 
But who would purloin a flower? 

“No, I can’t play with you now,” as Pussy 
Purr-Mew, who had been nibbling at a bit of fern, 
crept into the box and blinked up expectantly. 

To curl up in an empty box and be carried in 
to Warren, box and all, to be admired and have her 
ears tweaked was always a favorite game. 

But now, impatient at being ignored, mischiev¬ 
ously she clawed the tissue paper. 

“Stop it! You mustn’t tear that nice paper!” 
scolded Helen, intent on arranging the roses. 

Cavorting to the end of the long box which ex¬ 
tended over the pantry sink, Pussy Purr-Mew was 
suddenly toppled out on the floor. 

“Now, look what you’ve done!” as she scamp¬ 
ered away. 

Taking the vase into the library Helen made 
room for it on the mantel. 

“Dear, does that look too heavy there?” stand¬ 
ing back to view the effect. “Would it look bet¬ 
ter on the table?” 

Warren’s grunt was unenlightening. 

Deciding that the ornate, modern cut-glass vase 
clashed with the antique candlesticks and luster 
pitcher, Helen finally placed it on the table. 

Returning to the pantry, she picked up the box 
that Pussy Purr-Mew had tipped over on the floor. 


80 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Gathering up the scattered paper, she found a 
small card envelope. It was empty and not ad¬ 
dressed—but plainly it had been sealed and 
broken open. 

With an undefined impulse, Helen picked up 
Mrs. Armstrong’s card. It was too large! It 
had never been in that envelope! 

In the next few seconds Helen made swift and 
illuminating deductions. 

The untied box, minus an address tag. The 
slightly faded roses—eleven instead of twelve. The 
envelope which had plainly held another card. 
And, above all, Mrs. Armstrong’s petty economies. 

“Oh, that’s lovely! We might’ve known!” glee¬ 
fully catching up Pussy Purr-Mew. 

Her cheek against the soft fur, and her gaze 
fixed on the misfit card, Helen’s mind was working 
fast. 

“That’s a clever idea. Why can’t we pass it 
along?” 

A purring approval from Pussy Purr-Mew. 

Darting back to the library Helen took up the 
vase. Warren, conveniently absorbed in his paper, 
would never notice the depleted flowers. 

Again out in the pantry, she relined the box with 
the tissue paper, smoothing out the evidence of 
Pussy Purr-Mew’s rumpling paws. 

Selecting six roses, the more plausible number, 
she wiped off the stems and carefully replaced them 
in the box. 

Then addressing one of her own cards to “Mrs. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


81 


Alfred Benton—With best wishes for your quick 
recovery” she tucked it among the flowers. 

The box neatly tied with a bit of pink string 
from the pantry “string drawer,” Helen viewed 
it approvingly and carried it out to the elevator. 

“Take this to Mrs. Benton on the eleventh floor,” 
when the car came up in response to her ring. 

“Yes’m,” the elevator boy eyed the box with 
interest. 

Back in the library Helen took up her inter¬ 
rupted magazine serial. 

But the story now failed to hold her. She was 
picturing the flattered reception of her flowers. As 
Mrs. Benton was convalescing from a slight oper¬ 
ation, it was a most timely offering—and inci¬ 
dentally would pay for those mangoes the Bentons 
brought them from Cuba. 

If Mrs. Armstrong could discharge obligations 
with second-hand flowers why could not she? 

Who had sent the flowers to Mrs. Armstrong? 
Why had she not been more discreet in her 
strategy? How careless to have overlooked that 
envelope—and how foolish to keep one of the 
roses! Better to have kept six. Roses are ordered 
by the dozen or half dozen—never eleven. Nor 
does a florist ever send out a box untagged and un¬ 
tied. 

But the flowers were finally forgotten in the 
lurid serial of flapper sensationalism. 

It was after nine when the door bell rang again. 

“Oh, surely no one this late!” tumbling Pussy 


82 HELEN AND WARREN 

Purr-Mew from her lap. “Dear, do you mind 
going?” 

Again Warren grumblingly threw down his 
paper and stumped out to the door. He came 
back with a note which he tossed at Helen. 

“What’s the idea? Why all the notes and 
flowers? Ringing in another birthday?” 

With pleased expectancy Helen tore open the 
envelope. From Mrs. Benton—probably thank¬ 
ing her for the flowers. 

“My dear Mrs. Curtis: 

It was sweet of you to send me the 
flowers. Yes, I am much better. Quite 
well enough to enjoy a very amusing 
joke. 

You see, less than an hour ago I sent 
those roses (a dozen of them) to Mrs. 
Armstrong! So I was somewhat sur¬ 
prised when I opened the box. But as, 
fortunately, I have a sense of humor, it 
made really quite a diversion in an 
otherwise tiresome day. 

Yours, 

Lucille G. Benton.” 

As a horrified exclamation escaped her, Warren 
glanced up. 

“Who’s that from?” her crimson mortification 
flagging his attention. 

“Just a note from Mrs. Benton,” she tried to 
say it carelessly. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


83 


“What about? You’re red as a beet. See here, 
you’re not having any rumpus with anybody in the 
house?” 

With masculine dread of feminine squabbles, 
Warren always admonished her against intimacies 
with too close neighbors. “Make your friends 
outside,” was his sage motto. “Then when you 
have a row you’re not always bumping into ’em!” 

And now, his suspicions aroused by her con¬ 
fused silence, he threw down his paper with a stern, 
“Let’s see that note!” 

“Why, dear, it’s nothing—just about something 
I sent her.” 

“Let me see it!” 

Knowing the inexorability of that tone, reluc¬ 
tantly she handed it to him. 

A scowling glance at the condemning note. But 
instead of the dreaded explosion Warren threw 
back his head and roared. 

“Ha, ha, that’s the time you got stung! You’re 
always passing on your presents—and here’s where 
you got what’s coming to you. That’s a darned 
clever letter. She handed you a knockout all 
right.” 

“It’s a hateful letter,” flamingly, trying to take 
it from him. 

But, holding her off, he tauntingly read it 
aloud. 

“That’s the richest yet. You women passing 
around those flowers—paying off your debts on the 
cheap. Well, you were dumb. You knew Mrs. 


84 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Armstrong was a tightwad—might’ve doped it out 
she didn’t order those flowers for you.” 

“I did,” admitted Helen, almost tearfully. “I 
knew someone sent them to her—that’s what gave 
me the idea. But I didn’t dream it was Mrs. Ben¬ 
ton.” 

“Huh, a rum mix-up! Hereafter when you pass 
on your presents—be careful you don’t hand ’em 
back where they came from. Mrs. Benton’s a 
good sport. Glad she had the nerve to show you 
up. You’ll feel pretty small when you meet her 
in the elevator.” 

Then, with a chuckle, as he again settled down 
with his paper: 

“But for all we know she may be in the same 
boat with the rest of you cheap skates—might’ve 
passed ’em on herself. Ha, ha, those flowers were 
hustled along pretty lively before they wilted. 
Had quite a jaunt around. Bet they broke all 
speed limits since they left the florist.” 


Warren’s Scintillating After-Dinner 
Speech Does not Come off as 
Scheduled 

“Dear, do you want me to cough when your 
ten minutes are up?” Helen was drawing on her 
sixteen-button white gloves as they taxied down the 
Avenue. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll cut it short, all right,” War¬ 
ren glowered out at the glistening tops and firefly 
lights of the swarming motors. 

“You’ve got your notes?” anxiously. 

“Didn’t make any.” 

“Oh, Warren, I begged you to! There’ll be a 
lot of prominent people. Let me see that letter 
again. Who else is to speak?” 

“Didn’t say,” fumbling in his dinner-coat pocket. 

Switching on the light overhead, Helen scanned 
the letter he tossed her. 

“My dear Curtis: 

At the dinner the Civic Club is giving 
Alvin Gregory, we want you to make one 
of the ten-minute talks. 

You have known Gregory for a number 
of years, and the Committee feel you can 
give us something a little more intimate 
than the cut-and-dried after-dinner spiel. 

Yours, 

G. R. Wagner.” 


85 


86 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“I wonder who else they’ll have?” returning the 
letter. “Dear, don’t begin with that old thread¬ 
bare, ‘I’m glad to be here this evening’, or ‘It gives 
me great pleasure to’-” 

“Where’s he going?” Warren pounded on the 
glass. “Turn off here.” 

“One-way street, sir,” the driver called back. 
“We got to go ’round.” 

“And don’t try to be funny! I hate that strain¬ 
ing after a laugh. And don’t tell that story about 
the Scotch juryman. You always drag that in.” 

“Guess I can make a ten-minute talk without 
any coaching from you.” 

“Dear, you’re good at most things—but not at 
talking in public.” 

“I’m not, eh!” bristling. “S’pose you’d pre¬ 
scribe Professor Bunko’s mail-order course ‘How 
to Bryanize in Six Lessons’?” 

More Instructions From Helen 

“And, dear, don’t play with the silver! I’d 
rather you put your hands in your pockets. It’s not 
just the thing, but you look more at ease,” 

“Anything else wrong with this picture?” 
grunted Warren. 

“Yes. I didn’t like the way you stood when 
you talked at that Association. You sort of bowed 
your legs and teetered back and forth.” 

“Think they’ll all crawl under the table to 
lamp my legs?” 



HELEN AND WARREN 


87 


“Just stand squarely and forcefully as you 
always do. It’s only when you get up to talk— 
you sort of see-saw. And, dear, DON’T eat much! 
I read the other day that no one can speak well 
after a hearty dinner.” 

“Pity they didn’t call on you,” as they drew 
up before the hotel entrance. 

The Gregory dinner was in one of the banquet 
rooms on the top floor. 

Though the cards had said “7:30,” by the time 
they had checked their wraps it was almost eight, 
and the guests were just being seated. 

“There’re the Merwins,” fluttered Helen. “Oh, 
good evening. Yes, we’d love to sit at your table, 
but Mr. Curtis is going to speak. I presume we’ll 
be at the speakers’ table.” 

“Been looking for you, Curtis,” Mr. Wagner 
gripped Warren. “We’ve put you and Mrs. 
Curtis next to Senator Palaver,” leading them to 
the flower-decked table. 

A series of introductions, and Helen found her¬ 
self proudly seated at the long speakers’ table be¬ 
tween Warren and the portly, pompous Senator. 

Everyone cheered as Alvin Gregory, their re¬ 
tiring president, took the seat of honor. 

The Dinner Begins 

Mr. Wagner, the chairman, now rapped for 
order. 

“Just a moment. The photographers are ready 
to take the flashlight.” 


88 


HELEN AND WARREN 


A general stir of facing the gallery where the 
camera was being focused. 

Helen assumed her most effective pose—a chin- 
tilted, profiled wistfulness. 

“Dear, don’t look straight at it. That flash 
always makes you squint.” 

“Take more’n a squint to mar my style of 
beauty,” he grinned. 

An explosive flash, a cloud of smoke, and again 
the buzz of voices. 

The Senator not troubling to talk to her, Helen 
was free to appraise the other diners. Twenty 
tables of the smug, well-dressed Civic Club crowd. 

The dinner now in progress, the Cape Cods 
were followed by green turtle soup. Not the usual 
weak, tepid fluid of public functions, but a thick 
broth with the tang of real turtle. 

“Hello, you don’t often get brook trout at these 
talk-fests,” Warren greeted the fish course. “We’re 
playing in luck tonight.” 

“I understand we’re to get a good dinner,” the 
Senator leaned across Helen. “Wagner saw the 
chef and slipped him a good fat tip.” 

Helen Tries to Curb Warren’s Appetite 

“But, dear, you know you mustn’t eat much,” 
whispered Helen. 

“Well, I’m not going to pass this up,” dispatch¬ 
ing the trout meuniere. 

The entree, braised sweetbreads, and the roast 


HELEN AND WARREN 89 

guinea hen, were equally delicious. Helen’s re¬ 
straining nudges became more insistent. 

The endive cheese-dressed salad was followed by 
tall goblets of marron glace. 

“That’s so rich! Dear, don’t eat much of it. 
And none of those cakes,” all in a guarded under¬ 
tone. “Now have you got it straight in your mind? 
You know just what you’re going to say?” 

“Oh, tune off! Let me finish my dinner in 
peace.” 

“Yes, drink all your coffee,” when that was 
served. “It clears the brain.” 

It was just 9:30 when the chairman introduced 
the first speaker. 

A typical after-dinner talker, his effusive tributes 
to Mr. Gregory flowed with facile, flowery phrases. 
Exceeding his allotted ten minutes, he wound up 
with a rhetorical encomium, and sat down amid 
dutiful applause. 

Tense with expectation, Helen twisted her nap¬ 
kin. Would Warren be next? 

A few facetious remarks from the chairman, 
and the second speaker, Mr. Walter Rodman, was 
introduced. 

His studied, slangy, “good fellow” speech, inter¬ 
larded with “funny” stories, Helen hardly heard. 
Warren would be next, she felt sure. 

Helen Worries 

Surreptitiously she powdered her face, flushed 
from her nervous anxiety. 


90 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“He’s talking from notes,” she whispered. 
“Dear, make some on the back of this,” turning 
over the souvenir menu. “Jot down your main 
points.” 

Spurred by her intensity, Warren scrawled a few 
notes, while Mr. Rodman bubbled on with his care¬ 
fully rehearsed “extemporaneous” humor. 

Again the chairman’s witticisms before announc¬ 
ing the next speaker. 

Again Helen’s throbbing expectation was cause¬ 
less, for Senator Palaver was now introduced. 

With “spread-eagle” oratory, his eulogistic gar¬ 
rulity fairly overwhelmed Mr. Gregory. 

Words, words! Torrents of bombastic, flag- 
waving phrases. Laudatory flights of sonorous 
volubility. A prolixity of words with a paucity 
of ideas. 

His ten minutes long past, he boomed on with no 
sign of the end. Several times he paused to mop 
his heated baldness, and once to wet his flaccid lips 
from the glass that Helen had prudently moved 
back from his table-pounding fist. 

After exhausting his laudations to the guest of 
honor, he plunged into a general review of Ameri¬ 
can history, pledging his support to the “Constitu¬ 
tion—that Unimpeachable Bulwark of Our Liber¬ 
ties.” From this eminence he thundered into a 
dissertation on world conditions. 

His audience was growing restive—coughing, 
shifting chairs and feet. But ignoring these polite 
intimations, his pleonastic verbosity continued. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


91 


Prehistoric Stories 

And his laboriously dragged-in jokes! “In this 
connection, I want to tell a little story about—” 
Prehistoric stories! Jokes from the Paleozoic Age! 

“Dear, how much longer is he going to talk?” 
whispered Helen. 

“Just getting warmed up,” shrugged Warren. 
“Good for another hour.” 

“But he only had ten minutes.” 

“That’s not worrying him. He could hand out 
that flap-doodle all night.” 

The restlessness grew more pronounced. The 
chairman pointedly laid his watch on the table. 

But Senator Palaver, entranced by his resonant 
vacuities, mouthed on unheedingly. 

“And now in conclusion—” 

The rustle of relief was premature. He had 
launched off again. 

At last the embarrassed chairman half arose, his 
watch in his hand. 

“Ah, I fear my time is up. But before I leave 
this gifted gathering, there is one enduring, ennob¬ 
ling thought I want you to carry away—” 

Would he NEVER sit down? Dropping her 
mask of polite interest, Helen looked up at him 
with stabbing resentment. 

“Anybody got a brick in his dinner coat?” mut¬ 
tered Warren. 

When the Senator finally took his seat, the chair¬ 
man’s gavel sharply interrupted the applause of 
relief that followed. 


92 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Warren Gets No Chance 

“The hour is getting late. We had other speak¬ 
ers scheduled, whom we hoped to hear from, but 
I regret we must forego that pleasure.” 

The dinner abruptly breaking up, Warren 
steered Helen through the congratulatory group 
that gathered around the guest of honor. 

“Let’s beat it. Better get our wraps before this 
mob gets started.” 

“Why didn’t they stop him?” flamed Helen, 
when they reached the hall. “Why did they let 
him talk on like that? Why didn’t the chair¬ 
man—” 

“Huh, you couldn’t shut off the current on old 
Palaver,” fishing the cloakroom checks from his 
vest pocket. “Going strong at the end. Fat chance 
of switching off his line of patriotic bunk. And 
his moldy jokes—whiskered when they told ’em 
in the smoking-room on the Ark.” 

“Then he should’ve been last. Mr. Wagner 
should’ve called on you first.” 

“Darned glad he didn’t! I was well out of 
that chin-marathon. What makes me sore is the 
grub I missed,” shrugging into his coat. “Every 
time I took a running start at that guinea hen— 
you poked me in the ribs.” 

“And I told Mrs. Merwin you were to talk,” 
getting into her wrap unaided. “I don’t know what 
she’ll think. Her husband’s on the Star, and I 
thought if he wrote up the dinner he’d mention the 
speakers and maybe—” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


93 


“Now, you needn’t do any broadcasting for me! 
When I want a press agent, I’ll hire one. And no 
more putting the brakes on my appetite! Made 
me pass up that guinea hen for a talk I didn’t 
make!” with a snort. “Next time, speech or no 
speech, you watch me nail my dinner!” 

























PART II 


INTRUDING IN-LAWS 


/ 




Helen Rebels at the Annual Visitations 
of Warren’s Cantankerous Aunt 

“We’ve only a few minutes,” Carrie dropped 
into the easy chair by the window. “I just came 
in to exchange Bobbie’s shoes.” 

“Then you can’t stay for dinner?” Helen 
achieved the proper note of regret. 

“No, we’re going back on the 6:30. Don’t 
Precious, you’ll break it! Come here to Mother!” 

“Come away from the mantel,” urged Helen, 
as the incorrigible Bobbie continued to bounce his 
balloon. “You might knock something over.” 

“I’ve a letter from Aunt Amelia,” drawing off 
her gloves Carrie opened her handbag. “She 
wants to come week after next to have her glasses 
changed.” 

Aunt Amelia! Helen’s heart sank. Surely 
she would not be expected to have Warren’s fret¬ 
ful, contentious aunt again this year? 

“You know we’re having the new furnace put in 
—be careful, Pettie! She wouldn’t be comfortable 
with everything upset. She’d better stay with you.” 

“Why, Carrie, we’ve had her every time for the 
last three years! You haven’t had her once.” 

“But how can I? It’ll take a month to put in that 
furnace.” 

“They’re not putting it in the guest room,” per¬ 
sisted Helen, goaded by her sister-in-law’s selfish 
disregard of all family obligations. “Last year 
97 


98 


HELEN AND WARREN 


you couldn’t have Aunt Amelia because you had 
the painters. The year before, Bobbie was sick. 
Now it’s the furnace-” 

“Can I help that?” tartly. “There’s always 
something when you live in the suburbs. If I’d a 
city apartment with nothing to do, I wouldn’t make 
such a fuss about having Aunt Amelia for a few 
days.” 

“A few days? It’s always over a week!” 

“That was her teeth—now it’s only her glasses. 
Here’s what she says.” 

With smouldering resentment Helen read the 
letter. 

“Dear Carrie, 

If convenient I would like to come 
in a week from Monday to have my 
glasses changed. I have been troubled 
with headaches a great deal lately and 
we think it is these glasses. 

I should have attended to this sooner 
but wanted to wait until after Lucy’s 
wedding, next Tuesday. Not a big wed¬ 
ding—just the family. Married in her 
traveling suit—going to Cuba. I should 
think she would rather have that money 
for the house, but they are both set on 
the trip. I am giving her a dozen table¬ 
spoons, same design as the knives and 
forks from her mother. 

With love to you and Lawrence, 

Aunt Amelia.” 



HELEN AND WARREN 


99 


“Can’t she get her glasses changed in Spring- 
field?” Helen handed back the letter. “They’ve 
opticians there. Why must she come to New 
York?” 

“Well, you know Aunt Amelia. She thinks she 
can’t get anything in Springfield—even sends here 
for her hair nets. Now look what you’ve done!” as 
the balloon floated up to the ceiling and caught on 
the chandelier. “No, Mother can’t get it down. 
You’ll have to wait for Uncle Warren.” 

“Aunt Helen, can’t you?” whimpered the in¬ 
tractable Bobbie. 

“No, I couldn’t reach that string,” glad the bal¬ 
loon was safely out of the way. “Here,” giving 
him a magazine, “look at the nice pictures in this.” 

“Uncle Warren won’t be long,” comforted his 
mother. “There he is now!” 

“I want my balloon!” Bobbie bounded out to 
the hall. “Uncle Warren, come get my balloon!” 

“Hello, Carrie,” Warren breezed in. “How’s 
everything? Lawrence here?” 

“No, we’re going out on the 6:30. I just wanted 
to see you about Aunt Amelia.” 

“Aunt Amelia? Hello, Skeezicks!” tweeking 
Bobbie’s ear. 

“She wants to come a week from Monday to have 
her glasses changed. I’d be glad to have her— 
but we’re all upset with the furnace. Here’s her 
letter.” 

“What does she say?” swinging Bobbie to his 
shoulder. 


100 HELEN AND WARREN 

Above the gleeful shouts, Carrie read aloud the 
letter. 

“That Bowman boy she’s marrying—any good?” 
Warren landed his squirming nephew on his feet. 

“Just a clerk in his father’s drug store—that one 
next to the bank. Well, I’ll write Aunt Amelia 
you’ll expect her a week from Monday.” 

“Dear, we’ve had Aunt Amelia for the last three 
years!” broke in Helen. “And you know she’s 
never comfortable here—she says that bedroom’s 
so noisy.” 

“She’d be much less comfortable with us,” 
Carrie combated. “They’re putting in two new 
radiators—the whole place’ll be upset.” 

“Oh, all right, guess we can have her,” shrugged 
Warren. “Haven’t anything on for that week, have 
we?” 

“I want my balloon! Uncle Warren, you get my 
balloon!” 

“Oh, don’t stand on that chair!” anxioused 
Helen. “Get one from the bedroom.” 

“I can reach it without a chair. Bobbie, run 
get my cane!” 

“Then I’ll write Aunt Amelia tonight?” pursued 
Carrie. “Oh, you’ll break it!” as Warren tried to 
hook down the elusive balloon. 

“I’ll get a chair,” Helen darted into the bed¬ 
room. 

Alone, she stood before the dressing table, her 
hands pressed against her hot cheeks. It was so 
unfair! His whole family always made a conven- 


HELEN AND WARREN 


101 


ience of her! It was a flagrant imposition for 
Carrie not to take Aunt Amelia this year. 

“Warren!” she called from the door, “I can’t 
close this window.” 

“Which window?” Warren strode in. 

“No, no, I just wanted to speak to you. Dear, 
it ISN’T fair! We’ve had Aunt Amelia three years 
in succession—and you know how difficult she is. 
She’s written Carrie—she doesn’t expect to come 
here!” 

“Well, if they’re having the furnace put in-” 

“She always has some excuse! She just doesn’t 
intend to have her! She puts all the family on me. 
Dear, WON’T you tell her it’s her turn?” 

“Now, why make a fuss for a few days? Guess 
we can stand it.” 

“You can—you see her only at dinner. You 
don’t have to cater to her and listen to her com¬ 
plaints. And she expects to be taken to a matinee 
or concert every day—says she gets to New York 
but once a year. And she must sit way up front! 
Last time I spent over forty dollars just on tickets 
and taxis.” 

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t raise a rumpus 
over a few dollars!” 

“Well, that’s why Carrie won’t have her! I 
never object to entertaining your family. When 
they’re in town they all stay here over-night—but 
with Aunt Amelia it’s a week or more. And 
Carrie NEVER has her! Dear, won’t you say-” 

“I want my balloon!” Bobbie was pounding on 
the door. 




102 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Say something strong! Make her understand 
she MUST have her this year!” 

With a noncommittal grunt, Warren carried the 
chair into the library. 

“There you are,” drawing down the balloon to 
Bobbie’s eager hands. “Now hold on to it!” 

“Is that clock right? Twenty minutes to six? 
Get your cap, Precious!” 

“Carrie, since Aunt Amelia’s written you,” be¬ 
gan Warren, in reluctant response to Helen’s im¬ 
ploring signals, “maybe she’d rather be out in the 
suburbs. She’s been here so much—might like a 
change. Why not write her to wait until you get 
the furnace in?” 

“Oh, Helen’s been coaching you! I knew that’s 
what she called you out for! After the furnace 
we’ll have the carpenters for that sleeping porch. 
And you know Aunt Amelia won’t be put off. But 
if Helen’s so worried about the expense, I’m per¬ 
fectly willing to pay you for her board!” 

“Eh? What’s that?” thundered Warren. “You 
crazy?” 

“Not at all. I know that’s what’s worrying 
Helen—so I’ll pay for her board, and entertain¬ 
ment, too!” 

“Are you just trying to be insulting?” flushed 
Helen. 

“Why, no, I’m only trying to do my part,” with 
her most exasperating shrug. “I’m quite willing to 
pay-” 

“Now that’s about enough, Carrie,” snorted War- 



HELEN AND WARREN 


103 


ren. “That’s a little too raw! We’ll have Aunt 
Amelia. Now drop it!” 

“You needn’t be so touchy! I just wanted to do 
my share. I’d another glove somewhere—oh, here 
it is! Then I’ll write Aunt Amelia you’ll expect 
her the eighteenth. Come on, Pettie, leave that cat 
alone! Where’s your cap?” 

Helen bit her lip to keep back her surging re¬ 
sentment. Her selfish, assertive sister-in-law had 
scored again. 

“Where DID you put your cap? Now, isn’t that 
TOO provoking? We’ve barely time to make that 
train! Warren, you’d better ring for the elevator. 
It’s here somewhere.” 

A cyclonic search finally produced the cap from 
under the couch, where Bobbie had hurled it at 
Pussy Purr-Mew. 

“I’m coming in Friday—I’ll call you up,” flung 
back Carrie as they rushed out to the hall and into 
the waiting elevator. 

The flaming color scorching her face, Helen 
closed the door—hard. 

“She heard what I said in the bedroom—she 
listened! That’s why she offered to pay. She 
knows how to work you—she knew you’d flare up at 
that!” 

“Eh, work me? Carrie wouldn’t try that—and 
she wouldn’t listen either. That was pretty raw 
about paying—but she didn’t mean it that way.” 

“Oh, she didn’t?” bitterly. “You never see 
through Carrie. She was determined to get out of 


104 


HELEN AND WARREN 


having Aunt Amelia—and she did! Next it’ll be 
her teeth again—and Carrie’ll invent some other 
excuse for not having her.” 

“She’ll have to cook up a darn good one!” 
grimly. “It’s Carrie’s turn and she’ll come across 
—I promise you that!” 

“You say that now—but she’ll get out of it 
somehow. If she can’t think of any other way 
Bobbie’ll have scarlet fever! She made me take 
your Cousin Anna by saying he had the mumps—I 
found out afterwards he’s never had them!” 

“Oh, well, drop it! Stop chewing the rag about 
Carrie and let’s have dinner. How’s it coming on? 
Almost ready?” 

“I’ll ask her,” struggling against the surge of 
sick rebellion that conflicts with Warren’s sister 
always brought. 

“Cheer up, Kitten, a week of Aunt Amelia won’t 
kill us! Maybe Carrie did put it over this time but 
she’ll not do it again—I’ll see to that!” Then, with 
a chuckle, “If Bobbie has scarlet fever—we’ll go 
her one better and have measles or small pox! 
She’ll stand a fat chance of side-stepping Aunt 
Amelia next year!” 


A Turbulent Episode Ends a Hot and 
Hectic Sunday with His Family 

A hot, sticky Sunday in the country. A trying 
day of heat, dust, and tiresome relatives. 

The heavy midday dinner had left them all logy, 
sleepy, and querulous. 

Helen thought longingly of the luxury of a nap 
in her own cool, darkened room. Instead she must 
sit out on this sun-baked porch, listening to her 
sister-in-law’s complaints of the Hodges, the neigh¬ 
bors across the road. 

“She lets those children run wild! I’ve forbid¬ 
den Bobbie to go there—but they’re always here. 
Just yesterday they broke two limbs off that plum 
tree.” 

“We wuz makin’ a swing,” Bobbie was still hop¬ 
ping about on the Pogo stick his Uncle Warren had 
brought him. 

“I’ve told you never to climb in those trees! 
They’re not big enough to hold you. Take your 
stick out in the yard, Pettie, it’s too noisy on the 
porch.” 

But Bobbie, as usual ignoring his mother’s ad¬ 
monitions, continued to bounce about until Helen 
was nervous enough to scream. 

“Wouldn’t it be cooler inside?” she ventured, 

fanning with the Sunday supplement. 

105 


106 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“You get more air out here. Don’t you feel that 
breeze? You ought to be glad you’re not in the 
city today—must be sizzling.” 

Helen wanted to say it could be no hotter than 
this; and there would be no stifling dust, no flies, no 
mosquitoes. 

“Bobbie, take that thing out in the yard!” War¬ 
ren, coat off and feet comfortably elevated, was 
on the other end of the porch with Lawrence. 
“Wouldn’t have brought it if I’d known you’d 
make such an infernal racket.” 

Unaccustomed to obeying anyone, Bobbie con¬ 
tinued his noisy jouncing. 

“Bobbie, don’t you want to run upstairs and get 
my powder puff? I must’ve left it on your mother’s 
dresser.” 

More than she wanted her powder puff, Helen 
wanted to get Bobbie away from his Pogo stick and 
Warren’s menacing glare. 

“Come back and shut that screen door! You’ll 
let the flies in,” called his mother as he darted 
through, leaving the door ajar. 

“He always leaves it open. Why don’t you 
have it on a spring?” suggested Helen, thinking of 
Carrie’s stream of criticisms whenever she visited 
them. 

“Why don’t I do a lot of things,” snapped 
Carrie. “If you had this big house to run—every¬ 
thing to look after with only one maid—you 
wouldn’t keep things up half as well as I do. In an 
apartment you don’t know what work is!” 


HELEN AND WARREN 107 

“Ain’t up here!” yelled Bobbie from the head 
of the stairs. 

“I’m sure it is—a tiny pink bag. Maybe it’s 
on the bed with my things.” 

“Look, Lawrence, the Bentleys’ new car!” 
Carrie peered up the dust-clouded road. “That’s 
his mother with them. She has the money—but 
they don’t get along at all. They say she’s got an 
awful temper. Their maid told Jane-” 

Carrie was launched on her favorite indoor 
sport—rehearsing scandalous bits of gossip about 
her neighbors. 

“Oh, there go the Pearsons,” as a big roadster 
shot by. “Every Sunday they go to Cedar Inn for 
dinner. The money they spend—and he’s only on 
a salary. They say they owe their butcher for six 

months, and they- Get away, Sport, you’re 

so hot, and you’re full of fleas.” 

The panting bull terrier, who had sprawled down 
beside her, turned dejectedly away. 

“And they have to send to town for their gro¬ 
ceries,” she rambled on. “Borgers won’t give 
them any more credit. Yet the way she dresses! 
She just got a new Wendall suit—I saw the label 
when she was carrying the coat the other day. It 
cost two hundred if it cost a cent. But, then, of 
course,” with a shrug, “if they never pay their 
bills-” 

“This it?” Bobbie dashed out, twirling a tiny 
pink bag. 





108 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Shut the screen door, Precious,” mechanically 
from his mother. 

Taking out the puff, Helen dusted it over her 
heat-flushed face. 

“Kerchoo! Kerchoo!” 

Sneezing violently, she started up, her hands 
over her eyes. 

“That powder puff! He’s put something on it 
—pepper!” 

“Pepper? That’s absurd,” shrilled Carrie. 
“Where would he get pepper?” 

“It’s all in my eyes!” running up to the bath¬ 
room, followed by Carrie’s excited protests of Bob¬ 
bie’s innocence. 

After copious applications of cold water, her 
eyes still red and smarting, Helen came down to 
examine the puff she had dropped. 

“That IS pepper—red pepper! You can see it!” 

“Then that’s another trick he learned from those 
Hodge boys,” flared Carrie. “He never would’ve 
thought of such a thing himself.” 

“Still smart?” sympathized Lawrence. “Want to 
bathe them in milk?” 

“I didn’t get much in my eyes. If I had it 
might’ve been serious.” 

“You’re forever dabbing on powder,” grumped 
Warren, who never resented his nephew’s pranks 
unless he was the victim. “Wouldn’t be a bad 
idea if all fool powder puffs were loaded with 
cayenne.” 

“Where’s Bobbie?” demanded Lawrence, for the 


HELEN AND WARREN 109 

culprit had disappeared. “Carrie you ought to 
punish him for this.” 

“I won’t punish him for tricks he learns from 
those Hodge boys! They put him up to all sorts 
of things. You’ve just got to keep them away from 
here.” 

Helen forced back a caustic remark about Bob¬ 
bie’s malicious antics before the Hodges ever 
moved into the neighborhood. 

“Supper’s ready,” called Jane through the 
screen door. 

“Supper?” amazed Warren. “Why, we just got 
up from dinner!” 

“It’s after six,” Carrie reminded him. “And 
Jane wants to get off.” 

The dining-room, in spite of the fan humming 
on the sideboard, was even hotter and more stifling 
than the porch. 

They were hardly seated when Carrie jumped 
up, snatched a red board that lay on the window¬ 
sill, and struck at a fly buzzing against the screen. 

“What’s that? Pretty husky fly swatter,” Warren 
stared at the board on which was pasted a flam¬ 
boyant yellow label. 

“Oh, that’s one of those Tndestructo’ shingles 
they sent down for me to test out,” explained Law¬ 
rence, carving the cold roast veal left from dinner. 
“I may take a little stock in it. If it’s all they claim 
it’s a wonder.” 

“Doesn’t look like such a world-beater,” War¬ 
ren examined the board. 


110 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“It’s dipped in some patent preparation that 
makes it weatherproof, waterproof, and outwear 
three ordinary shingles—Helen, you don’t like fat, 
do you? And fireproof, too.” 

“Huh, they don’t claim much for it.” Warren 
dug into the potato salad. “Better look into it 
pretty close. You can drop a lot on a scheme like 
that.” 

“They’ve got some good men back of them— 
going to advertise it big. Trying to get a slogan 
now. Something like ‘Indestructo Shingles, Built 
for Wear’ or ‘Our No-Leak-0 Sheds Sun and 
Rain’. They want to advertise a catchy phrase so 
it’ll be called for in building specifications.” 

“Jane, see if Bobbie’s upstairs,” instructed 
Carrie. “Tell him to come down to his supper. 
Why, here he is!” at a snicker from beneath the 
table. “Why, Precious, what’re you doing under 
there?” 

“Nuthin’,” crawling out, he climbed into his 
chair. 

“Bobbie, why did you put pepper on Aunt 
Helen’s powder puff?” 

“Now, Lawrence, let him eat his supper. Here, 
Dearie, Mother’ll tie your napkin.” 

“Want some of that,” petulantly, pointing at the 
potato salad. 

“No, darling, not for supper. Eat your bowl of 
rice and milk—then you can have some nice stewed 
plums and cake.” 

The supper progressed with constant fretful de- 


HELEN AND WARREN 111 

mands from Bobbie, conciliatory endearments from 
his mother, and silence from Helen. 

“These are some of our own plums,” boasted 
Carrie. “From that little plum tree those wretched 
boys broke down.” 

“They’re very nice,” murmured Helen, politely, 
spooning into her saucer. 

“There’s a breeze! Look at those curtains. No 
matter how hot it is we always get a breeze toward 
evening. It’ll be lovely and cool on the porch 
now.” 

“We won’t have much time,” demurred Helen. 
“We want to take that 8:10.” 

“No, you don’t—you’ll miss the best part of the 
day,” protested Lawrence. “That 9:30 gets you 
home in plenty of time. Try one of these,” passing 
Warren the box of cigars from the sideboard. 
“Some Spencer sent me.” 

They were rising from the table when Warren, 
with a sudden lurch, fell heavily against the side¬ 
board, knocking over a pitcher of ice water. 

A moment’s confused excitement, then a volcanic 
explosion from Warren. 

“That devilish brat!” 

“What has he done?” shrilled Carrie. “He 
wasn’t near you!” 

“Look at my shoestrings! Tied themselves to¬ 
gether, did they? Just wait’ll I get hold of him! 
He won’t sit down for a week!” 

“Oh, you might’ve fallen. You might’ve hurt 
yourself badly,” Helen fluttered over him as he 


112 


HELEN AND WARREN 


stooped to unfasten the shoestrings that tied his 
feet together. 

A jeering snicker from Bobbie as he slid out and 
scampered up the stairs. 

“How COULD he have done it?” persisted 
Carrie. “He hasn’t been near you.” 

“He hasn’t, eh?” grimly. “What was he up to 
under the table? Where’s that ‘Indestructo’?” 

Grabbing the red and yellow shingle Warren shot 
out of the room and up the stairs. 

“Don’t touch him!” Carrie ran screaming after 
him. “Don’t you dare-” 

But the next moment lusty yells from Bobbie 
proved that his uncle was administering a salutary 
thrashing. 

Lawrence had rushed up too, but Helen, left 
alone in the dining-room, was content to wait and 
listen. 

For her pepper-laden powder puff, Bobbie had 
gone unrebuked; but for the prank played on 
Warren he was being promptly chastised. 

A tumultuous interval, then Warren’s heavy 
step clumped down the stairs. 

“Well, he got one good licking if he never gets 
another,” he snorted, throwing down the shingle. 
“Ha, ha, built for hard wear, eh? I gave it a try¬ 
out along those lines, all right. Got in a few sting¬ 
ers with the old ‘Indestructo’ that’ll make Bobbie 
take his meals a-la-buffet for a while. I’ll teach 
that young imp to get gay with ME!” 



Helen’s Rummage-Sale Donation 
Involves Her in an Awkward 
Predicament 

Conscience-stricken, Helen gazed at the 
orange postcard. An appeal she had wholly for¬ 
gotten! 

ANIMAL LEAGUE RUMMAGE SALE 
Do Your Share! 

Send Your Old Clothes, 

Bric-a-Brae, and Furniture 
All Proceeds Go To Our 
Free Animal Clinic 

Animal charities always had Helen’s support. 
She was a yearly contributor to the Humane 
Society, the Horses’ Aid, and the Animal League. 

She had fully intended to get up a bundle for 
this rummage sale, but had mislaid the announce¬ 
ment. And now it was too late—the sale was to¬ 
day. 

Again she consulted the card. “From 10 A. M. 
to 10 P. M.” It was only two-thirty now, and most 
of the things were sold in the afternoon and evening. 

There was still time. She could still give some¬ 
thing. And the address, an empty store donated 
for the sale, was only a few blocks away. 

Darting to the kitchen, Helen dragged out the 
step-ladder chair to explore the upper shelves of 
113 


114 HELEN AND WARREN 

the hall closet—her only repository for odds and 
ends. 

Just last week she had sent a bundle of clothes 
to Germany—a destitute family met on their last 
trip. But she still had those two old evening gowns. 

These laid out, she looked for something more. 
On the top shelf bulged a newspaper package. 
What was in it? It felt hard and lumpy. Tearing 
a slit in the paper, she glimpsed a bloated gilt 
cherub. 

That awful vase! The Christmas-before-last 
present from Warren’s Aunt Amelia. 

If only she dared! Why not? He need never 
know. 

He had been furious when she refused to have it 
on the mantel. Her compromise of putting it in his 
room had been followed by its banishment to the 
hall closet. She could always count on his mascu¬ 
line lack of observation. 

That was over a year ago. He would never think 
of it again. A donation to a worthy cause! To 
what better use could it be put? 

Unwrapped, she viewed its onyx base and sup¬ 
porting infants. Aunt Amelia’s presents always 
ran to garish gilt and corpulent cherubs. 

An expensive monstrosity, even at a rummage 
sale it might bring four or five dollars from some¬ 
one who vibrated to the ornate. 

Half an hour later Helen started out with a 
bulky package. 

Around the corner to the back street of neigh- 


HELEN AND WARREN 


115 


borhood shops. Down five blocks and in a dusty 
window, below a “For Rent” sign, was the orange 
poster: 

RUMMAGE SALE 
THE WOMEN’S ANIMAL 
LEAGUE 

Inside were long board tables cluttered with the 
discouraging assortment of discards, always do¬ 
nated to rummage sales. The walls were hung 
with bedraggled evening gowns and suits of archaic 
vintage. 

Two customers hovered over a table of old shoes 
and evening slippers marked, “Choice, 50c.” An¬ 
other was examining a battered carpet-sweeper. 

One of the volunteer saleswomen greeted Helen 
cordially. 

“I mislaid the card,” apologetically. “Is it too 
late to leave these?” 

“Not at all. We’ve hardly begun. Everyone 
comes late in the afternoon.” 

“I just sent a bundle to Germany, so I had only 
these two evening gowns—they’re not worth much. 
But I thought you might get something for this 
vase.” 

“Indeed we can! Showy things are easy to sell. 
We’ll put this in the window. Mrs. Willis will mark 
it—she does most of the valuing.” 

“What do you do with the things that are not 
sold?” Helen glanced about. 

“At nine o’clock we auction off everything that’s 
left. Second-hand dealers come for that. Last 


116 


HELEN AND WARREN 


year we cleared over two hundred dollars, but we 
had a fur coat that brought forty. We’ve only sold 
seventeen-fifty so far, but we always do better in the 
evening.” 

All the way home Helen was glowingly elated at 
having disposed of Aunt Amelia’s monstrosity, 
and at the same time contributed to her favorite 
charity. 

“The plumber’s here,” was Nora’s greeting when 
she entered. “And I just called the butcher ’bout 
that knife. He says he’s got a dozen there he’s 
sharpened, and he’s forgot which is our’n. We got 
to go pick it out.” 

“Oh, how annoying! If I’d known when I was 
out. Must we have it tonight?” 

“We got roast beef,” ominously. “And you 
know how riled Mr. Curtis got last night when he 
had to carve with that kitchen knife.” 

“Then I’ll ’phone him to stop and get it on his 
way home.” 

Warren loathed being bothered with errands, 
and invariably he got the wrong thing, the wrong 
size or the wrong number. But their carving knife 
he knew, and after his explosion last night he might 
be willing to get it. 

His stenographer on the wire, the next moment 
she had Warren. 

“Dear, would you mind stopping at the butcher’s 
for that carving knife? ... He can’t, he got it mixed 
with some other knives he’s sharpened ... I can’t 
leave—the plumber’s here fixing the shower . . . 


HELEN AND WARREN 


117 


Why, yes, we’ve got that kitchen knife, the one you 
blew out about last night . . . Roast beef . . . 
You will? You’re a dear.” 

For Helen the rest of the afternoon passed 
quickly. She mended and put away the laundry, 
and finished the bronze silk shade for the hall. 

She was trying it on the lamp, when, a little after 
six, Warren breezed in. 

Under his arm was a bulky bundle, in his hand 
a long, narrow package. 

“Here’s your knife, Kitten! Good and sharp— 
now keep it that way. Tell her not to use it in the 
kitchen. I never have a decent knife to carve with.” 

“And what’s that?” appraising the larger pack¬ 
age he had brought. 

“Wait and see,” he chuckled, hanging up his hat 
and stick. 

“Oh, that candelabrum I’ve been wanting?” fol¬ 
lowing him into the library. 

“No, better’n that. You can get that yourself. I 
ran on to this by chance. Dumb luck! Bet if you 
scoured the town, you wouldn’t find one like it.” 

“Oh, let me guess,” in a joyous flutter. “I know 
I can. Let me feel it.” 

“Feel away. You’d never guess in a thousand 
years. Got it dirt cheap, too. Here, scoot! 
Nothing in this for you.” 

But Pussy Purr-Mew, always insatiably curious 
about every incoming package, continued her sniff¬ 
ing appraisal. 

“There!” triumphantly ripping off the paper. 


118 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“If that isn’t a dead ringer for Aunt Amelia’s vase, 
I’ll eat it. Now you’ve got a pair!” 

In petrified horror Helen stared at his purchase. 
The gilt-and-onyx monstrosity that she had just 
taken to the rummage sale! 

“You say I never see anything. Well, I lamped 
THAT, all right. Rum joint, too. Some sort of a 
rummage sale. Lot of old junk—only decent thing 
they had.” 

“What—what did you pay for it?” she faltered. 

“Only eight bucks. Talk about YOUR bargains! 
That’ll hold you for a while.” 

Eight dollars! Helen wound the string around 
her finger until it cut. 

“Now you got a pair we can have ’em in the lib¬ 
rary. You said one didn’t look well—didn’t bal¬ 
ance, or something. Now get out Aunt Amelia’s! 
Where’d you put it? Oh, I know, in my room.” 

At any other time Helen would have seen the 
humor of his absurd lack of observation. It had 
been over a year since the vase had been on his 
chiffonier. 

“Not there,” he swung back. “Side-tracked it, 
eh? Where ’bouts?” 

Helen’s thoughts raced chaotically. What could 
she say? She dared not admit she had given his 
Aunt Amelia’s vase to the rummage sale. 

Pussy Purr-Mew was still sniffing at the obese 
cherubs. Could she have knocked it off and broken 
it? No, it was too heavy. That would not be plaus¬ 
ible. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


119 


A maid might have broken it! Anna, Nora, any 
of the fleeting domestic potentates. But that was 
how she had disposed of that awful cut-glass bowl 
his Cousin Irene had given them. She could not 
risk that same fabrication again. 

“Oh, I—I thought I saw a crack there,” excus¬ 
ing her prolonged scrutiny. 

“Crack?” belligerently. “Where’s it cracked? 
Not even nicked. Now trot out the other one. 
Let’s see ’em together.” 

“Dear, I’ll look it up tomorrow. I don’t re¬ 
member just where I put it.” 

“Been on my chiffonier right along. When did 
you shift it?” 

“Oh I—I don’t remember just when. I thought 
it was in your way.” 

“Know where you put it, don’t you? Can’t lose 
a thing big as that. Up in the hall closet—that’s 
where you chuck everything. I’ll get the step- 
ladder.” 

“Not now! It’s all dusty up there—and she’ll 
have dinner in a minute.” 

“Can’t do it afterwards. We’re going to that 
show tonight.” 

“Yes, I know,” eagerly. “We’ll have to leave it 
until tomorrow.” 

“Well, the first thing in the morning you get it 
down. And write Aunt Amelia. Tell her how I 
nailed its twin—she’ll be tickled to death.” 

“Dinner’s served,” announced Nora. “Mr. 
Curtis bring that carving knife?” 


120 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Yes, it’s right there on the hall table.” 

“Lucky you ’phoned me to get that knife,” ex¬ 
ulted Warren, when they sat down to dinner. “I’d 
never have seen that vase. Just above the 
butcher’s.” 

The prime roast slicing' delectably under the 
razor-sharp knife, contributed to his amiable ab¬ 
sorption; and Helen’s brooding silence passed un¬ 
noticed. 

A pair! The other vase! She had until to¬ 
morrow night to concoct some feasible excuse for 
not producing it. 

By tomorrow night he might forget all about it. 
If something important came up at the office, it was 
very possible. But she dared not count on that. 

At the end of the dinner, spooning at her choco¬ 
late pudding, the solution came. 

That leak in the hall closet from the apartment 
above! It had almost ruined Aunt Amelia’s vase! 
By tomorrow night she would have discovered the 
damage and taken it to be repaired. A week, even 
two, could be required. By that time both vases 
would have faded from Warren’s convenient about- 
the-house memory. 

“What’s struck you? ’Bout as chatty as a clam. 
Haven’t opened your trap.” 

“Oh, I was thinking of the things I must do to¬ 
morrow,” arousing herself. “Everything comes on 
Saturday.” 

“Well, I’ll tell you ONE thing you’re to do,” 
grimly. “Get that vase down! You’re always 


HELEN AND WARREN 


121 


side-tracking Aunt Amelia’s presents—parking ’em 
out of sight. But you won’t pull that this time! 
Now you have ’em both on the library mantel 
when I get home tomorrow—or there’ll be trouble.” 

Then, scraping with avidity his chocolate-pud¬ 
ding saucer: 

“What d’you call this stuff? Nothing but air 
bubbles. Got any more? Well, tell her to trot it 
out!” 


The Near-Tragedy of a Chicken-Wing 
Purloined from a Restaurant 
Dinner 

“Dear, have you a piece of paper? An old 
envelope will do.” 

“An envelope?” Warren was struggling with the 
drum-stick of his dollar-and-a-half portion of 
broiled spring chicken. “What d’you want it for?” 

“This wing—I haven’t touched it. I’ll take it 
to that poor little cat.” 

“Be gone by the time we’re through. Not going 
by there anyway.” 

“Why, it’s just a block below here,” pleaded 
Helen. “And it looked so wretched—huddled 
there in that dark doorway.” 

“Hold on, don’t use that!” as she started to fork 
the chicken on to the dinner card. 

Drawing some letters from his pocket he tossed 
her an envelope. 

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t act like you’re 
swiping something,” scowling at Helen’s furtive 
glance about as she thrust the wing into the en¬ 
velope. 

“They might think I’m taking it for myself,” she 
flushed. 

“What if they do? We’ve paid for it. None of 
their darn business!” 

Helen loved his independence, yet as often as she 
122 


HELEN AND WARREN 


123 


took scraps from restaurants to feed some pathetic 
cat, she could not bring herself to do it openly. 

“You haven’t another envelope? It’s coming 
through this,” for the grease had already stained 
the thin bond paper. “It’ll soil my purse.” 

Grumblingly he gave her another envelope into 
which Helen slipped the package, concealing it in 
her bead-bag as the waiter approached. 

“Anything else, sir? Salad? We’ve some nice 
endive.” 

“No, I’d rather have romaine. Make a good 
cheese dressing—Roquefort.” 

“Some tomatoes with it, sir?” 

“If they’re not too ripe. Quartered—not sliced.” 

“Yes, sir.” Warren’s expert ordering always 
impressed the waiters. 

“By George, there’s Conway!” throwing down 
his napkin. 

Mr. Conway! The big tire manufacturer—one 
of Warren’s clients. 

With flurried interest Helen watched the portly, 
pompous man and the stout, expensively gowned 
woman whom Warren had risen to greet. 

“We live just around the corner,” after the in¬ 
troductions. “Why not drop in for a few moments? 
We’ve finished, but we’ll wait for you.” 

“Great!” agreed Warren, ignoring Helen’s ap¬ 
pealing nudge. 

With Mrs. Conway in an elaborate evening 
gown sitting beside her, Helen in her simple trico- 
tine suit felt conspicuously plain. 


124 


HELEN AND WARREN 


And when, a little later, they came out into the 
sultry night, she was still straining for some subject 
of mutual interest, for Mrs. Conway was discon¬ 
certingly affected and artificial. 

Turning m at a pretentious apartment hotel, they 
were shot up to the Conways’ suite on the eleventh 
floor. 

“What charming rooms,” murmured Helen. 
“You furnished them yourself?” 

“Oh, yes, I couldn’t live with hotel furniture— 
it’s always impossible!” 

Helen glanced about at the expensive but char¬ 
acterless furnishings. Obviously an interior dec¬ 
orator had had unlimited license and money. 

Black lacquered furniture against mulberry 
walls, mulberry rugs, and mulberry hangings. 
Helen felt even the books in the built-in bookcases 
had been selected solely for their morocco bindings 
—an effective note in the color scheme. 

It was all forbiddingly formal and unlivable. 

“Morgan Staples did these rooms. A consum¬ 
mate artist!” effused Mrs. Conway. “Such un¬ 
erring taste! You know he’s doing Mrs. Richard 
Jones’ house.” 

Helen had never heard of Mrs. Richard Jones, 
but she tried to look as if she had. 

“She’s gone abroad and left everything to him. 
He’s to have it all ready, even to the china, when 
she gets back. She’ll escape all the fuss and worry. 
If one can afford it that’s an ideal way of furnish¬ 
ing. Don’t you think so?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


125 


Helen did not think so, but she managed a polite 
assent. She could imagine nothing more prepos¬ 
terous than to give a decorator full authority. 
One’s own personality, not that of a paid profes¬ 
sional, should dominate one’s home. 

“Would you care to see the other rooms? Per¬ 
haps Mr. Curtis would like to come, too?” 

“I’m sure he would,” untruthfully, knowing 
Warren was much happier talking “shop.” “Dear, 
Mrs. Conway’s going to show us the other 
rooms.” 

“What’s that?” glowering at the interruption. 
“Oh, of course,” laying down his cigar with ill- 
concealed reluctance. 

“Morgan Staples spent days studying my per¬ 
sonality,” effervesced Mrs. Conway, ushering them 
into her bedroom. “He sent down all kinds of drap¬ 
eries and posed me against the different back¬ 
grounds to get just the right effects. He even rec¬ 
ommended the fabrics and colors for my house- 
gowns!” 

“How very interesting!” Helen fell back on that 
over-worked comment. 

“He said my personality was most intriguing. 
He had never known anyone whose color vibra¬ 
tions were so complex and elusive. He tried ever 
so many combinations in here before he decided 
on mauve and old gold.” 

“How about Conway?” grinned Warren. “What 
color does he vibrate to? Ought’ve papered his 
room with yellow-backs.” 


126 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Oh, I wasn’t considered in this layout,” laughed 
Mr. Conway. “Rut I drew the line when Edith 
wanted him to do over my offices.” 

“You see how daringly he handled the mauve— 
and yet with such exquisite restraint,” Mrs. Con¬ 
way ignored their facetiousness. “To me this is 
such an inspiring room. I feel I can do creative 
work in here! It’s so responsive!” 

“It’s very attractive!” Helen groped vainly for 
a more “highfalutin” remark. 

“This is one of the house gowns he chose,” indi¬ 
cating a bizarrish green and orange mandarin coat 
draped across a mauve chaise-longue. 

They were next shown Mr. Conway’s room, 
austerely grandiose in browns. 

The dining-room was Italian Renaissance. The 
heavy carved refectory table and stiff, high-backed 
chairs gave a grim, ecclesiastical atmosphere. 

Warren’s aversion for interior decorators was 
even stronger than her own. To cover his grunt¬ 
ing unresponsiveness, Helen was forced to keep 
up continuous murmurs of “How charming,” “How 
effective.” 

Even after their return to the library Mrs. Con¬ 
way was so enrapt in her effusive account of 
Morgan Staples’ temperament, and “iconoclastic 
methods” that it was ten o’clock before Helen could 
break in with a departing move. 

“Jove, that was tiresome!” when they reached 
the restful darkness of the street. “But I got a 
few good points from Conway before she butted in. 


HELEN AND WARREN 127 

He’s all right—sharp as a steel trap. How the 
devil does he put up with her?” 

“She’s so affected,” tucking her arm through his. 
“All that talk about that decorator! It’s just a 
pose!” 

“Well, she’s messed up that place,” yawned 
Warren. “Spent a bale of money and got nothing 
for it. That living-room’s ’bout as cheerful as a 
funeral parlor. And those dinky dining-room 
chairs—they’d put a crimp in your anatomy!” 

“That’s because they had a fashionable deco¬ 
rator,” laughed Helen. “Aren’t you sorry we 
didn’t have one?” 

“How in blazes can people fall for that bunk? 
Haven’t enough gumption to know how they want 
their own homes! Well, I must hand it to you, Kit¬ 
ten! Wouldn’t trade our place for ten like that 
—and we’ve not spent half as much.” 

“Half? Why, not a third! You do see, don’t 
you,” triumphantly, “that I HAVE put personality 
into our apartment? You’re always making fun 
of my antiques—but they do give atmosphere, and 
I DO know how to arrange things.” 

“Here don’t hand yourself too many bouquets. 
I said you’d done a darn sight better than she 
had—that’s not saying a heluva lot!” 

“Our lovely old things—they’re so distinctive! 
You know everyone who comes is impressed. Think 
what could’ve been done with the money she spent.” 

“Huh, she had to pay something to have that 
bird gush over her ‘intriguing personality!’ Jove, 


128 


HELEN AND WARREN 


he must’ve laid it on thick! Wonder if he hands 
’em all the same spiel. Eh, what’ve you lost now?” 

“Oh! Oh!” frantically Helen was searching her 
handbag. 

“Well, don’t stop to frisk yourself in the middle 
of the street,” hustling her across as a motor shot 

by- 

“That envelope with the chicken!” still clutching 
at her bag. 

“Well, what about it?” 

“I—I LEFT it! I took it out to get at my powder 
puff—when I was sitting on that couch! And I 
forgot to put it back!” 

“Chicken bones in a greasy envelope on that 
‘mulberry’ couch!” he chuckled. “Put that dec¬ 
orator’s color scheme on the blink if that gravy 
soaks through.” 

“Oh, she’ll find it!” anguished Helen. “She’ll 
find it!” 

“What if she does?” 

“Your name’s on that envelope! Oh, what 
WILL they think?” 

“Guess they’ll think you left your lunch,” he 
shrugged. “Not that I care a hoot, but maybe 
this’ll cure you of lugging around bones for alley 
cats.” 

“Warren, WILL they think that? Can’t we do 
something? Go back and explain?” 

“Yes, and make it a blamed sight worse. You’re 
forever making fool plays and trying to explain 
’em!” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


129 


“They’ll think we’re so poor that I take food 
from restaurants! It’ll reflect on you! He won’t 
want anyone to handle his business who’s so-” 

“Now, you needn’t worry about that,” with ego¬ 
istic complacency. “I’ve helped Conway swing 
some big deals. Your chicken bones won’t queer 
me with him!” 

“I’m just sick about it! And she’s so affected 
and supercilious—I can just see her opening that 
greasy envelope!” 

A plaintive “meow” from a dark doorway. 

“There’s your protege,” Warren twirled his 
cane at a huddled mite of fur. 

“Poor little thing! And I’ve nothing for it.” 

“Might give it this,” taking a bulging envelope 
from his pocket. 

Helen stared, speechless. Then joyously snatched 
it from him. 

“And you’ve had it all along? How-? 

Where-?” 

“I grabbed it when you shed it on that ‘mulberry’ 
couch.” 

“And you wouldn’t tell me? You let me worry 
all this time!” 

“Wanted you to have a darn good lesson,” grin¬ 
ning down at her as she fed the emaciated kitten. 
“Now, maybe when you tote around chicken bones, 
you’ll hold on to ’em—and not leave ’em with your 
friends as souvenirs!” 





Warren Drafted for Housework Proves 
an Awkward and Rebellious Recruit 

“Nothing worth reading in the whole bunch,” 
grouched Warren, turning through the last of the 
magazines he had brought into the bedroom. 

“Give me that Hectic Monthly Helen, con¬ 
valescing from the grippe, doubled the pillow 
under her head. “There ought to be something in 
that.” 

“South Sea yarns, flapper slush, and ‘How I 
Made My First Billion’,” he flung it on the bed. 

“Why, here’s a story by Mildred Lucas—she 
writes awfully well. Dear, read that. Fill this 
first,” drawing the hot-water bag from under the 
covers. 

“How often d’you want this bloomin’ thing filled? 
Every five minutes?” 

“It wasn’t hot. No, not the bathroom, try the 
pantry—and let it run.” 

It was Nora’s Sunday afternoon off, and War¬ 
ren’s ministrations were grumblingly inefficient. 

“Dear, how’d she leave things out there?” when 
he came back with the hot-water bag. “She’s always 
in such a hurry to get off.” 

“Never mind about that! Your job’s to get well. 
This darned thing leaks!” 

130 


HELEN AND WARREN 


131 


44 You haven’t screwed it tight. I’ll fix it.” 

Again settled by the window, Warren started on 
“Ashes” by Mildred Lucas. 

In blissful relaxation Helen snuggled down, 
Pussy Purr-Mew in her arms. A cosy Sunday 
afternoon with Warren reading aloud! Dreamily 
she watched him. 

How well he looked in that light gray suit. She 
loved his deep, resonant voice. She always got more 
out of a story when he read, for she was apt to skip. 

44 0h, dear, that old telephone!” as the bell 
shrilled out. 

With an irate grunt, Warren dropped the maga¬ 
zine and strode into the library. 

Through the closed door, Helen caught only an 
indistinct mumble. If it were Mrs. Stevens, she 
hoped he would thank her for the chicken broth. 

“Carrie,” briefly, as he swung back. “They’re 
coming in town.” 

“CARRIE!” Helen’s shrill dismay expressed her 
dread of her critical, scrutinizing sister-in-law. 
“They’re not coming here?” 

44 Just started. Be an hour yet. Where was I?” 
taking up the magazine. 

44 ‘Then, while the wind still sobbed 
and drummed about the house, an¬ 
other sound intervened—a low, shud- 
dery-’ ” 

“Warren, you let her come? With me sick— 
and the whole house upset?” 



132 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Thought they’d cheer you up. This place looks 
all right.” 

“No, you can’t read now! You let them come— 
you’ve got to help straighten.” 

“What d’you want done? Don’t have to slick up 
for Carrie and Lawrence.” 

“This bed must be changed. It’s always done 
Saturday, but Nora had so much to do—I thought 
it could go until Monday.” 

“That bed’s all right. Doctor said you’re to keep 
still. Now you lie back there and let me read to 
you.” 

“If you won’t help—I’ll get up and do it my¬ 
self!” 

“What d’you want done?” irascibly, flinging 
down the magazine. 

“Get two sheets and two pillow cases from the 
hall closet.” 

A moment later came his shouted, “Where 
’bouts? No sheets here.” 

“Right there on the third shelf—where they’re 
always kept.” 

He came back to find Helen out of bed, dragging 
off the covers. 

“Here, what’re you doing? You sit down there 
and boss the job.” 

“It won’t hurt me for a few minutes. You stay 
on that side,” shaking out one of the fresh sheets. 
“Tuck it in well at the top. No, pull it over more. 
Now the other. Just look how she scorched that! 
One of the new sheets, too!” 


HELEN AND WARREN 133 

“Now, don’t start fussing. Fix this bed and get 
back in.” 

While dexterously she slipped a pillow into its 
fresh case, Warren struggled with the other, thrust¬ 
ing it in all askew. 

“The blamed thing won’t fit!” punching it with 
his fist. 

“You started it crooked. Give it to me. Put 
these in the hamper.” 

The soiled linen crammed into the bathroom 
hamper, he again flopped into the chair by the 
bed. 

“Warren, you can’t read now! You said you’d 
help.” 

“Haven’t I?” belligerently. “What more d’you 
want?” 

“Why, you haven’t started! Clear off this table. 
Take those glasses out. And run the sweeper over 
the rugs. She didn’t do a thing in here this morn¬ 
ing.” 

“What’s the idea? Nobody but Carrie and Law¬ 
rence. Why all the——” 

“Then I’ll have to do it myself,” again starting 
to get up. 

“Oh, all right,” with savage resignation. “Where 
d’you keep your sweeper?” 

“In the broom closet—where it’s always kept. 
Dear, Bring a dust rag as you come. Wait, take 
these glasses out with you. And empty that waste 
basket. And throw out those flowers—they’re all 
wilted and-” 




134 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“How many hands d’you think I’ve got?” as he 
stumped out with only one glass and the waste 
basket. 

With guilty haste Helen now slipped out of bed 
and into the dressing-room. 

Darting back with her best crepe de Chine gown, 
comb, powder, and hand-mirror, she got into bed 
just as Warren entered dragging the carpet-sweeper. 

“You been up again?” he glowered. “Puttin’ on 
a lot of dog for Carrie? What d’you care how you 
look? They know you’ve been sick.” 

“Run it over that rug by the window—good. 
And pull down that shade! The way that light 
streams in shows every speck of dust,” combing her 
hair by the mirror propped against her knees. 

“Something’s wrong with its innards! Wants oil. 
Hear that rattle?” 

“You took up a hairpin. It won’t hurt. Run it 
way under the bed.” 

“Think they’ll get down on their knees to snoop 
under there? Here’s that cork I dropped last night. 
Where’s that bottle?” 

“Right there on the table. Dear, hand me your 
nail-file. And take that old robe of mine into the 
bathroom. I want my blue satin—the quilted one. 
In my closet, left-hand side. And bring the slip¬ 
pers that go with it.” 

“Now you’re not going to get up for them!” 
sternly. 

“No, but I want those things here. And bring 
my atomizer when you come.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


135 


With his usual masculine density about her 
clothes, Warren brought three pairs of slippers be¬ 
fore he found the tiny blue satin mules. 

“Why all the scenery?” he grumped, as she 
draped the quilted satin robe over the foot of the 
bed, and directed the conspicuous placing of the 
dainty mules. “Setting the stage for a bedroom 
farce?” 

“You didn’t bring the atomizer. And take these 
back—no, wait, I’ll keep the powder and mirror,” 
thrusting them under her pillow. “And bring me a 
fresh handkerchief—my top drawer. One of those 
embroidered ones I got in Milan.” 

“Got in Milan?” with a snort. “How the Sam 
Hill can I tell a dago wipe?” 

“Bring the whole box then. And look, dear, how 
rumpled this is,” untying the red ribbon from 
Pussy Purr-Mew’s collar. “Get her a fresh one, 
won’t you?” 

“Now, I’m not valeting that cat! Got enough to 
do tricking you out. Here, what ’bout your broth? 
Darned sight more important’n all this tom-fool¬ 
ery.” 

“I told her to leave it on the stove—all ready for 
you to heat. Oh, shut that closet door—they can 
see right in. And what’re those socks doing on 
that chair? Put them away, and-” 

Hurling the socks in the closet, he slammed the 
door and stalked kitchenward. 

“Don’t see any broth out here,” he yelled back. 
“Where’d you say it was?” 



136 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“On the stove! I suppose it’s covered up—just 
LOOK!” 

A few moments later he strode in with the broth 
in the kitchen measuring cup. 

“You’ll have to eat out of this. Couldn’t find 
anything else to put it in.” 

“That’ll do,” resignedly. “Now some salt—on 
the sideboard. And a napkin—the top sideboard 
drawer.” 

“By George, if this’s what a trained nurse’s in 
for—no wonder they pull down fifty a week,” as he 
slouched back with the salt-cellar. “What’s that? 
No napkin? Well, I can’t remember a dozen things 
at once. Here, use this,” tossing her the towel that 
had been wrapped around the hot-water bag. 

“Dear, she wants some,” as Pussy Purr-Mew 
sniffed at the aluminum cup. “Get her saucer— 
you’ve heated more than I want.” 

“Now, you eat it all,” dropping into his chair, 
he took up the magazine. 

“Oh, dear, don’t sit down yet. She only does the 
kitchen and dining-room on her Sunday off—you’ll 
have to do the library.” 

“Not on your life! Not do another darned 
thing,” grimly. “Just because Carrie’s coming for 
a couple of hours—you want the whole place 
scrubbed up.” 

“Why, dear, it won’t take you five minutes. Just 
run the sweeper over and dust. If you don’t I’ll 
have to! I can’t have Carrie see-” 



HELEN AND WARREN 137 

With a muttered oath, he again flung down the 
magazine and banged into the library. 

“Yes, you shall have some,” as Pussy Purr-Mew 
still sniffed at the cup. 

The spoon held over the towel, Helen filled it 
drop by drop while the pink tongue licked industri¬ 
ously. 

“Where’d I put that dust rag?” Warren was at 
the door. “Here, what’re you doing? Giving your 
broth to that cat?” 

“I had most of it. There’s a tea towel—that’s 
what you brought in for a dust cloth. But go ahead, 
I’ll put it in the wash. And be sure to dust the desk 
and the bookcase, and straighten those papers, 
and-” 

But he had slammed the door to cut short further 
injunctions. 

Again the telephone! 

Sitting up in bed, Helen strained vainly to catch 
the import of Warren’s mumbled monologue. 

Silence. Then his steps toward the bedroom. 
The door swung open. 

“Well, you can shed your Tollies’ get-up! 
They’re not coming!” 

“Not coming?” shrilly. “Then why did she 
’phone? Why did she-” 

“Had a blow-out—and their engine’s on the 
blink. Left the car in a garage. Going back by 
trolley.” 

“It’s always like that,” with flaming indignation. 




138 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Carrie always manages to upset and disappoint 
you some way!” 

“Disappoint you?” he snorted. “Why you were 
sore as the devil because she was coming. Kicking 
like a steer about-” 

“Yes, I know—but now that we’re all ready, 
and-” 

“Huh, now you’re all dolled up and the stage 
set—don’t want the show called off! That it? 
Well, I’m the one to be sore—had me hustling 
’round polishing the whole place—doin’ a spring 
house-clean! Now I’m through!” explosively. 
“There’s your mushy old magazine,” he flung it 
on the bed. “Read it yourself! I’ve done enough. 
After that dose of general housework—here’s 
where I lay off!” 




Warren Uncovers a Clever Swindle 
When Helen Buys an Antique Plate 

An old frame house, once white, now a paintless 
grey. An unkempt yard with straggling shrubbery 
and a discouraged fir tree. 

On the sagging gate hung a piece of cardboard 
crudely lettered: 

“A FEW ANTIQUES FOR SALE” 

From across the muddy road Helen sighted the 
alluring sign. The word “Antiques” was always 
an irresistible magnet. 

“Dear, let’s go in! They might have some won¬ 
derful old things.” 

“Now we’re not going to miss our train for any 
old junk,” grumped Warren, who had come out to 
look over some suburban lots. 

“They run every hour! We might find a wall 
clock for the bedroom. You can pick up things in 
these old houses for almost nothing—and we’re 
right here,” pleadingly. 

With grumbling reluctance he followed her 
across the rain-slushed road, through the obdurate 
gate, and up the shrub-fringed path. 

Glowingly expectant Helen pulled the old bell 
that gave a remote tinkle. 

The door was opened by a harsh-featured old 
woman in a rusty black gown. 

139 


140 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“We were just passing and saw the sign,” ex¬ 
plained Helen. 

“You can come in,” peering through her glasses. 
“I’m only selling a few things to help pay my 
taxes,” showing them into an old-fashioned sitting- 
room. 

Helen’s heart beat fast as she glanced about. 
A find! A real find! 

The place was crowded with antiques. Every¬ 
thing was old from the hook rugs to the quaint 
colored prints. And over the fireplace hung a 
banjo clock! 

“My grandfather built this house—it’s just as 
he left it. It’s mighty hard to part with things 
that’s been in the family all these years.” 

“It must be,” sympathized Helen, wondering 
what she would ask for the clock. 

“That’s my grandfather,” pointing to a faded 
photograph in an old round frame. “Excuse me 
a minute, there’s somebody at the back door.” 

“What wonderful things,” whispered Helen 
exultingly, when they were alone. “I KNEW 
there’d be something in this old house. I’m crazy 
for that banjo clock! But don’t say a word— 
let me do the buying.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ll not butt in. But you won’t 
pull off any bargains! Bet she’s got everything 
priced to the limit—looks like a wise old bird.” 

“Dear, they don’t value antiques in these small 
towns. Oh, that quaint footstool—and that luste 
vase- Sh-sh, she’s coming now.” 



HELEN AND WARREN 


141 


When the woman entered Helen was examining 
a fire-screen, purposely showing interest in some¬ 
thing she did not intend to buy. 

“Yes, my grandmother worked that. You don’t 
see them like that often.” 

“What would you want for it?” anxious to get 
a line on her prices. 

“Well, I refused eighty dollars last fall. But 
I’ve had such a hard winter—the weasels carried 
off all my chickens—I’ll take that for it now.” 

Eighty dollars! Helen’s hopes of bargain prices 
were rudely shaken. 

But perhaps, because she mentioned this first, 
the woman thought she wanted it most and priced 
it accordingly. Other things might be cheaper. 

“That’s a nice old sofa,” still ignoring the things 
she really wanted. 

“Yes, that’s a genuine ‘Duncan Phyfe’ piece— 
and in perfect condition.” 

Duncan Phyfe! So she was well up on Colonial 
furniture. Helen’s hopes ebbed. 

“Does that clock run?” with careful casual¬ 
ness. 

“Oh, yes, it just needs oiling. That belonged to 
my great-grandfather.” 

“Pity that piece of veneering’s off. What do 
you want for it as it is?” 

“As it is?” sharply. “You don’t get a clock a 
hundred years old without a scratch. Just to pay 
my taxes I’ll take seventy—but it’s worth much 
more.” 


142 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Seventy! And Helen had hoped to get it for 
about twenty-five. 

The footstool was thirty. The luster vase, badly 
nicked, twenty. 

Warren, staring out the window, was whistling 
derisively under his breath. 

“Well, we were just passing and thought we’d 
stop in,” began Helen, planning a graceful exit. 

“I’ve got some things in the dining-room,” 
quickly. “Some china that belonged to Aunt 
Matilda that I’ll sell cheap. I don’t set so much 
store by her things as I do by Grandfather’s.” 

The dining-room was also crowded with old- 
time treasures. The sideboard and corner cabinet 
filled with blue Staffordshire. 

Helen’s heart missed a beat as the woman took 
out a platter of “Washington Crossing the Dela¬ 
ware.” 

“You can have that for seven dollars—that’s 
giving it away. But as I said, I never set much 
store by Aunt Matilda. And since the weasels car¬ 
ried off my chickens—I’ve got to sell something.” 

A “Washington Crossing the Delaware” platter 
for only seven dollars! 

“What do you think, dear?” feigning reluctance 
to conceal her eagerness. 

“Don’t ask me,” shrugged Warren. “Don’t know 
anything about this stuff.” 

“Well I—I guess I’ll take it.” Then opening her 
purse, “Seven dollars?” fearful it was seventeen. 

“Yes, seven. And here’s something else that 


HELEN AND WARREN 


143 


belonged to Aunt Matilda,” taking from the side¬ 
board a ruby glass tumbler. “You can have that 
for three.” 

“Very well, I’ll take it,” trying to say it care¬ 
lessly. “And how much is this?” examining an old 
octagonal decanter on the sideboard. 

“I ought to get forty dollars for that—but I’ll 
let it go for thirty.” 

“Um, didn’t belong to Aunt Matilda,” mumbled 
Warren under his breath. 

“What’s that?” she turned sharply. “What 
d’you say?” 

“We’ll have to be getting along,” ignoring her, 
he glanced at his watch. 

“You won’t take that fire-screen?” as they re¬ 
turned to the sitting-room. 

“No, I think not—not this time,” Helen gave her 
a ten-dollar bill. 

“Well, I’ve got to sell a few more things to make 
up my taxes. If any of your friends drive out this 
way, I’d be obliged if you’d give them my address.” 

“Yes, we will. Dear, you write it down while 
she wraps those.” 

“Jove, forgot to fill this pen!” Warren had drawn 
out his note-book. 

“There’s ink on that desk—115 Maple Road. 
I’ll go get some string.” 

“Something phony here,” scowled Warren, as the 
woman disappeared. “She’s puttin’ something 
over. She’s got too blamed much of this stuff—I 
don’t believe it’s right.” 


144 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Right? Why, what do you mean, dear?” 

“Bet that plate’s a reproduction. For the real 
stuff the sky’s the limit to her prices—this Aunt 
Matilda story sounds fishy.” 

“Warren, you’re always so suspicious! How 
could this poor old woman way out here get repro¬ 
ductions? Why you can see they’re all family 
things. She didn’t like this aunt—that’s why she’s 
willing to sell her things cheap.” 

“I don’t fall for that yarn. Darnation!” as his 
dipped pen left a blot. 

Fumbling among the papers on the desk for a 
blotter, Warren paused with a muttered exclama¬ 
tion. 

“Why, dear, what’re you doing?” amazed Helen, 
as always so punctilious about other people’s let¬ 
ters he deliberately scanned the one before him. 

“Read that! You needn’t have any qualms. 
She’s put one over on you.” 

The brief communication Helen grasped at a 
glance. 

“My dear Mrs. Hubbard: 

We are shipping you another dozen 
of the ruby glass tumblers, but regret we 
are out of ‘Washington Crossing the 
Delaware’ platters. Expect a shipment 
from the factory in a few days, and will 
then fill your order. 

Very truly yours, 

The Bridgeport China Co.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


145 


“Now what about your poor old woman and her 
Aunt Matilda?” he scoffed. 

“I won’t take them!” flamed Helen. “She’ll 
have to give my money back!” 

“Huh, you’ll never get your ten out of that old 
girl. She’ll not give up-” 

“I found this other platter that belonged to Aunt 
Matilda,” as she re-entered. “I thought you might 
like the pair.” 

“I think not, and I—I’ve decided not to take 
these after all,” stammered Helen. “We’re not 
going right home—and they’ll be so hard to carry.” 

“Why that’s all right, I can send them—if you’ll 
pay the expressage.” 

“No, I—I really don’t think I want them after 

all. They’re not just what I thought and- 

Well, I don’t want to take them.” 

“That’s not the way I do business,” bristling. “A 
sale’s a sale! After wasting my time pricing every¬ 
thing in the shop—I mean the house-” 

“You spilled the truth that time!” exploded 
Warren. “It’s a shop, all right—fixed up to land 
suckers. This stuff’s all planted here to sell. Aunt 
Matilda’s platters!” with a snort. “Aunt Matilda 
turns ’em out by the gross in Bridgeport, Con¬ 
necticut!” 

“Why—what do you mean?” she spluttered, her 
face brick red. 

“Better put those letters away when you’ve got 
customers. But I’ll hand it to you! That weasel 
story’s a peach!” 





146 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Livid with rage, the old woman fairly shrieked 
maledictions after them, as they made their way 
out. 

Again in the muddy road, Helen clung shud- 
deringly to Warren’s arm. 

“Why did you egg her on? I was almost afraid 
of her. I never saw anyone in such a rage!” 

“Peppery old hen,” he chuckled. “Worth the 
ten to hear her squawk.” 

“But who’d have thought it? In this tumbled 
old house, way out here-” 

“Huh, lot of motoring out this way. She’s rented 
that house and chucked it full of stuff to sell. 
Whole place, sign and all, is a plant. Did you 
see that bunch of bills from antique dealers? Bet 
she does a roaring business.” 

“And I’m out ten dollars for a cheap platter and 
goblet,” mourned Helen. 

“You got off easy. Might’ve been stung for fifty. 
Dam clever stunt—salting that old house. Her 
stage-setting was great! The screen her grand¬ 
mother made and her grandfather’s clock! But she 
didn’t fool me,” with masculine egotism. “I was 
wise to her game from the first.” 

Then, as he swung Helen over a muddy pool: 

“Never mind, Kitten, I’ll stake you to the ten. 
Worth that to call her bluff. Ha, ha, wasn’t she 
peeved when she found the jig was up? She saw 
you were an easy mark like most of the boobs 
who’re dippy on antiques—but she wasn’t countin’ 
on ME!” 



Helen Takes a Short Story Course and 
Defies Warren’s Scathing Ridicule 

It was only an ordinary square typewritten 
envelope. But in the upper left-hand comer was 
the magic lettering — “STANFORD’S MAGA¬ 
ZINE.” 

For days, Helen had watched every mail, dread¬ 
ing a long bulging envelope which would bear that 
name. 

This was NOT her returned manuscript! They 
were writing to accept her story! This small enve¬ 
lope could mean nothing else. 

With dizzy ecstasy she held it to the light, vainly 
trying to trace the lines within. Twice she started 
to tear it open, but in the background of her 
turmoiled thoughts was the primitive impulse to 
bargain with the gods. 

From childhood, when she had wanted any¬ 
thing greatly, she had always felt that she must 
made some propitiatory sacrifice. 

If this letter said her story was accepted—she 
would give Nora that brown hat with the orange 
quills that she was always admiring. 

Fortified by this superstitious covenant, fever¬ 
ishly Helen tore open the envelope. Her heart in 
her throat, she swept the three momentous para¬ 
graphs. 


148 HELEN AND WARREN 


“Dear Madam: 

We are pleased to inform you that we 
have accepted your story ‘The Compro¬ 
mise.’ A check for $150 will be mailed 
you within a few days. 

This story shows unusual vigor and 
originality. We like the realism of your 
dialogue and the restrained handling of 
your situations. 

If you have any other manuscripts, we 
should be pleased to see them. 

Very truly yours, 

John F. Kemble, Editor.” 

In the breathless exhilaration of the next few 
moments, Helen, catching up Pussy Purr-Mew, 
fiercely hugged from her a protesting mew. 

One Hundred and Fifty Dollars! It seemed 
incredible. 

If she could write this one story, she could 
write more—many, many more! Her brain reeled 
before a staggering line of figures. 

And Warren! The joy of telling him!! How 
she would now exult over his disdainful scoffing 
at her literary effort. 

Ever since she had subscribed for that mail 
course of “Short Story Technique in Ten Lessons” 
his ridicule had been unmerciful. He had termed 
the course a “fake” and her resultant story “rotten.” 

When she sent it to Stanford's Magazine , he had 
snorted a contemptuous, 


HELEN AND WARREN 


149 


“Why burden the mails and some overworked 
manuscript reader with that piffle?” 

And now that ‘piffle’ had not only been accepted, 
but the editor had written her a personal letter say¬ 
ing it showed marked originality and realism. 

With only Pussy Purr-Mew for an audience, 
Helen spent the rest of the afternoon rehearsing 
triumphant speeches with which she would gloat 
over Warren. 

Perhaps a more subtle exultancy might be even 
more effective—to wait until they were at dinner 
and then quietly announce: 

“Dear, you may be interested to know the story 
you thought so ‘rotten’ has been accepted by Stan¬ 
ford's Magazine 

Or, perhaps more annihilating still would be 
a casual: 

“Oh, I almost forget to tell you—I had a let¬ 
ter from Stanford's Magazine." Here she would 
pause for the caustic comments he would be sure 
to make. Then, with squelching dignity, “They’ve 
accepted my story for $150!” 

Again a dissenting mew from Pussy Purr-Mew 
at the ecstatic hug that followed. 

Rehearsing still more withering follow-up 
speeches, in a flutter of rapturous expectancy, 
Helen dressed for dinner. 

She was hooking up her new orchid taffeta, when 
Nora appeared at the door with a woe-begone face 
and a broken plate. 

“It’s one of the good ones, ma’am. I don’t 


150 


HELEN AND WARREN 


know how it got broke—I was just takin’ it down 
from the shelf—and-” 

“Well, don’t worry, Nora. It can’t be helped. 
Don’t get that roast too done—Mr. Curtis likes it 
rare. I want everything specially nice tonight.” 

The girl stared at this unexpected leniency. The 
breakage of the good china had never before been 
regarded with such complacency. 

The familiar bang of the front door! 

Trying to quiet her pulsing excitement, Helen 
lingered for a final thrilled rehearsal before she 
ran out to meet Warren. 

“Left my umbrella in the subway. Rotten luck!” 
was his grumpy greeting. 

“Did you, dear? Well, it doesn’t matter! Don’t 
give it a thought. I’ll get you a dozen umbrellas, 
if you want them.” 

“Eh? The devil you will!” looking at her 
sharply. “What’s struck you?” her flushed elation 
plainly evident. 

All her rehearsals were forgotten. All jher 
determination to be restrained and dignified were 
thrown to the winds. 

“My story! Stanford's Magazine has taken it!” 

“That piffle you read me?” 

“The editor of Stanford's Magazine doesn’t seem 
to think it’s piffle,” one of the rehearsed phrases. 
“Just read this letter.” 

“For the Love of Lulu!” as he scanned it. 
“Well, that stumps me!” 

“And it’s all due to that short story course you 



HELEN AND WARREN 151 

jeered at! I’m going to write them about my 
wonderful success—it’s only fair.” 

46 ‘Unusual vigor and originality,’ ” snorted 
Warren, still puzzling over the letter. “If there’s 
any originality in that story—I’ll eat it!” 

“I don’t care what you say about it now,” 
jubilantly. “You’re not a literary critic—and the 
editor of Stanford’s Magazine IS!” 

“A pretty punk one, I should say. How in 
blazes can he print that maudlin, hackneyed stuff 
and hold his job?” 

“It isn’t so maudlin but what it’s worth $150!” 
flamingly. “Just think of the things I can buy! 
First, I’m going to get-” 

“Plenty of time to spout about that. Come down 
to earth now, and let’s have dinner,” as with a dis¬ 
gusted grunt he strode in to wash up. 

It was not until they were half through dinner 
that Helen paused in her vaunting elation to re¬ 
member her bargain with Fate. 

“The HAT! Oh, I forgot all about that hat!” 
starting up from the table. 

“Eh? What the Sam Hill struck you now?” 
demanded Warren. 

“Before I opened that envelope, I said if my 
story was accepted—I’d give Nora my brown hat. 
I should’ve done it right then.” 

“Well, of all the batty ideas! Next thing you’ll 
be-” 

But Helen had darted into her room beyond the 
reach of his sarcasm. 



152 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Wistfully, she smoothed the orange quills. The 
hat had always been becoming and it was as good 
as new, but she must not falter in her bargain. 

“Hold on, don’t give it to her now,” scowled 
Warren, as she came through the dining-room. 
“She’ll think you’re crazy.” 

“I don’t care what she thinks,” pushing through 
the pantry door. 

But she did feel rather foolish when she con¬ 
fronted Nora, who was lustily singing a mournful 
hymn as she dished out the rice pudding. 

“Oh, Nora, while I think of it—I want to give 
you this hat. You always liked it so much, and I 
—I thought you might be going out tonight.” 

Nora’s amazement surmounted her stammered 
gratitude. To be presented with a hat after break¬ 
ing one of the good plates was mentally upheav¬ 
ing. 

Flushed and disconcerted, Helen made her 
escape. 

“Now, eat your dinner. Don’t rush off on any 
more wild stunts,” growled Warren, as she came 
back to the table. 

“Oh, I’m too excited to eat. You know what 
my next story’s going to be?” 

“Huh, if that editor had one lapse of sanity— 
don’t count on him having another. Must’ve been 
soused when he wrote that letter.” 

“I don’t care how cynical you are now—the 
editor of Stanford’s Magazine probably knows 
more about short stories than you do.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 153 

“If he does—he had a mental aberration when 
he read that one.” 

“It’s for you, ma’am.” Nora entered with a 
special delivery letter. 

The same square envelope—the same engraved 
“Stanford’s Magazine”! 

“Oh, I know! They want the motion picture 
rights,” thrilled Helen, running an eager fork 
under the flap. 

“Dear Madam: 

An unfortunate error has just been 
discovered. Two stories were recently 
submitted under the same title, ‘The 
Compromise.’ One bore your address, 
and the other was from Mrs. Margaret 
Martin of Terre Haute, Indiana. 
Through a clerical error, the letter in¬ 
tended for Mrs. Martin was mailed to 
you. 

As we deeply regret this, we have 
again read your story, hoping we could 
use it. But it is so unsuited to our re¬ 
quirements that we are returning it under 
separate cover, with apologies for this 
blunder. 

Very truly yours, 

John F. Kemble, Editor.” 

Helen had read aloud only the first sentence—- 
the rest she grasped in one agonized glance. 

As her head went down on the table, the letter 
fluttered to the floor. 


154 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Eh? What’s the trouble?” Warren snatched 
it up. 

Waves of scorching humiliation engulfing her, 
she tried to stifle her sobs. 

“That’s a damn shame, Kitten! I’d like to 
paste his map. Here, here, don’t cry like that. 
That fathead doesn’t know a good story when he 
sees one. Look here, I’ll buy it for a hundred 
and fifty!” 

“It—it isn’t the money. I—I thought I could 
write.” 

“Darn glad you can’t! I’m not keen on a 
literary wife. Too blamed temperamental—and 
they dress like the devil. Rather have you as 
you are.” 

“And I—I was going to make enough money to 
buy all my own clothes-” 

“Huh, have I put up any kick about shelling 
out the coin?” 

“No, no,” still sobbing convulsively, “you’re 
always generous, but-” 

“Then why all this hullabaloo? Come, come, 
Kitten, you’ll be sick.” 

Forcing up her head, he kissed her wet flushed 
cheek. Then, drawing out a roll of bills, he tossed 
them on the table. 

“You’re out that hat you gave Nora. Now, go 
blow yourself tomorrow—get some new frillikins. 
And chuck that fool short story course! Give it 
to the elevator boy. I didn’t marry any female 
pen-pusher—and I don’t want one wished on me 
now!” 




A Missing Key and Warren’s Impatience 
Contribute to a Flurried Departure 

“Dear, I forgot to get any films!” dismayed 
Helen, as she wedged in the camera. 

“Oh, you can get ’em anywhere,” Warren was 
writing the baggage tags. 

“But I want to take some on the steamer. 
Couldn’t we stop on the way to the dock?” plead¬ 
ingly. “We pass a lot of places.” 

“Now we’ll do no shopping on the way to the 
dock!” grimly. “Here, tie those on,” throwing 
her the tags. “Got in my field glasses?” 

“Yes, right in your tray. Under your collars.” 

“How ’bout collars? How many did you put 
in?” 

“That box that hadn’t been opened—and all 
you had clean. But only a few ties, you’ll get some 
in London.” 

“Hello, here’s my raincoat!” Warren was explor¬ 
ing his closet. 

“Why, dear, you’re taking your overcoat—you 
won’t need-” 

“Now you put this in,” tossing it to her. “Room 
for all your duds—but you always crowd out 
mine. Now hustle along there! Ought to leave 
here in forty minutes,” glancing at his watch. 
“Guess that’s the office,” as the ’phone rang. 

155 


156 


HELEN AND WARREN 


While he talked to his secretary, who had called 
up for any final instructions, Helen, emptying the 
pockets of matches, pipe and tobacco, crowded 
the raincoat into his trunk. 

“Now how ’bout it?” turning briskly from the 
’phone. “These ready to lock?” 

“In just a minute! Oh, the hot-water bag! 
Dear, you get it! In the bathroom,” still hovering 
over the trunks. 

“Here you are!” Warren strode back swinging 
a rubber bag. 

“No—no, that leaks! The one on the back 
of the door.” 

“Why the Sam Hill don’t you chuck ’em out 
when they leak? Why keep ’em hanging around? 
For wall decorations?” 

“I was going to have it mended—just a little 
hole in the seam.” 

“Huh, got the whole place littered up with 
stuff to be mended. Notice you never have any 
of it done. If I kept my office like you-” 

“Dear, DON’T start on that! I’m trying to think 
if we’ve forgotten anything. Oh, that book on the 
Paris restaurants!” darting into the library. 

“Where to Eat in Paris” and the non-leaking hot- 
water bag were crowded in together. 

“Yes, you can lock yours now,” yielding to his 
scowling impatience. 

While he locked and strapped his trunk, Helen 
took a last flurried glance through hers. Had she 
everything in? Her shoes! They were the most 


HELEN AND WARREN 


157 


important, for she could never get shoes in Europe. 
She was taking five pairs—Oxfords, pumps and 
evening slippers. Surely that ought to be enough. 

“Yours ready?” 

“Yes, I think everything’s in,” with worried 
uncertainty. 

“Where’s your key?” 

“Why, isn’t it in the lock? Then it’s just dropped 
out. Wait, I’ll find it.” 

But a hasty search of the floor failed to reveal 
the missing key. It must be there somewhere! 
The trunk had been locked when brought up from 
the storeroom. She could not have opened it 
without the key. 

“I’ve another one on a ring. Oh, WHERE did 
I see that? Just the other day.” 

With a grim disdain that always increased her 
nervous disconcertion, Warren, his hands in his 
pockets, watched her flustered, futile search for 
the key. 

“Never know where anything is,” contemptu¬ 
ously. “Got as much sense of order as a cow. If 
I ran my office as you run this house—you’d be 
taking in washing.” His most exasperating slur, 
always flung at her when anything was lost or 
mislaid. 

“I KNOW I had it yesterday,” frantically 
poking under the dresser with his cane. “It must’ve 
dropped out and been kicked under something.” 

“Here, you’re only wasting time. It’ll have to 
go unlocked. Get a key made in London.” Then, 


158 


HELEN AND WARREN 


as he tried to force in the lock, “Darnation, blamed 
thing won’t go in!” 

The tongue of the lock out, it would not fit in 
without the key. 

“Can’t let it go that way. Get me a rope—I’ll 
have to tie that down.” 

6 ‘Why, dear, we haven’t any rope!” 

“Got a clothesline, haven’t you? Well, get 
that.” 

“We never had a clothesline—she uses the 
dryers in the basement.” 

“Then get some string—anything. Quick! Got to 
move fast now.” 

Helen flew out to the kitchen and returned with 
the string box. 

With a disgusted snort, Warren glowered at the 
snarled mass—the economical savings of many 
household parcels. 

“Haven’t you got a decent ball of twine? Too 
darn stingy to buy one?” 

“Just a minute. Won’t these do? I’ll tie them 
together.” 

One end tied to the protruding lock, the other 
reached only half around the trunk. Helen’s 
nervous fingers extracted still another piece. 

“Now step on it! Ought to be out of here in 
fifteen minutes.” 

A precious half hour lost over that trunk! Helen 
was now in a nervous panic. A hasty glance at 
her “To Do” list. The still unchecked items 


were: 


HELEN AND WARREN 


159 


“Fasten windows 
Draw shades 

Library table from window 
Pull out all sockets 
Lock hall closet.” 

“Now, dear, you see that all the windows are 
fastened—and draw down the shades. Be care* 
ful of that one in the dining-room—it comes off 
the roller,” moving her precious Sheraton table 
from the window, away from any sun that might 
filter through the shade. 

Next she disconnected all the lamps by pulling 
out the wall sockets—a safety precaution never 
neglected before trips. 

An explosive oath from the dining-room. 

Rushing in she found Warren fuming over an 
obdurate shade. Pulled too far down, it refused to 
spring back on the roller. 

“Oh, leave it—leave it that way! You’ll pull 
it off!” 

But with his usual obstinacy, Warren gave an¬ 
other irate jerk. 

An ominous rip, a shriek from Helen. The 
shade torn from the roller clattered to the floor. 

“I begged you not to pull it! I begged you not 
to!” 

“Didn’t pull it. Darned thing wasn’t half fast¬ 
ened. Well, leave it down.” 

“Leave it down? Why, the afternoon sun just 
streams in here.” 


160 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“What of it? You got the rugs up. Can’t hurt 
anything.” 

“The sideboard! It’ll shine right on that old 
veneered mahogany.” 

“Well, I’ll tell the superintendent. He can put 
it up after we’re gone.” 

“No, no, I don’t want to give him any excuse 
to come in here. With all our wine in the hall 
closet—even if it is locked. Dear, just tack it 
up some way—you’ll HAVE to.” 

“Risk missing the steamer to put up a blooming 
curtain?” 

But Helen, darting out to the pantry, flew back 
with hammer and tacks. 

“Dear, get the ladder! Behind the pantry door,” 
forestalling his inevitable “where is it?” 

A moment later, Warren grumblingly proceeded 
to tack up the curtain. 

“No, dear, that’s wrong. It goes the other way.” 

“It goes any way I put it! You’re darned lucky 
to get it up at all. Confound it!” as he dropped 
the tack. “Why in blazes didn’t you have some¬ 
body here to help us off?” 

“You know I tried,” handing up another tack. 
“You heard me telephoning.” 

Without a maid and with Mrs. O’Grady sick, 
their getting off this year had not been easy. And 
as Warren’s business trips were always unexpected, 
Helen had had but three days’ notice before they 
sailed. 

“There, you can’t roll it—but it’ll have to do. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


161 


Now here’s where I ’phone for a taxi. Ought to be 
out of here by now. Risk missing the steamer to 
put up a damned curtain!” 

“Why, dear, there’s plenty of time, it’s not ten 
—and we don’t sail until twelve.” 

“Got to get our luggage through, passports 
stamped, and I want to see G. W. He’s coming 
down to the dock.” 

It was a hectic last half hour. Afraid to trust 
Warren, Helen had to see that all the windows were 
fastened, and all the water turned off. Her for¬ 
gotten sandals and a clothes brush were crammed 
into the suitcase. 

“That string looks awful—like an immigrant’s 
box,” when a few moments later the elevator boy 
carried out the cord-wrapped trunk. “If I could 
only find that key!” 

“Come on now,” brisked Warren. “Not another 
moment!” 

“Oh, I hope I haven’t forgotten anything,” with 
a final panicky glance about. 

“Don’t worry,” sarcastically, “you’ll think of 
’em on the steamer.” 

Downstairs the superintendent was on hand to 
help them into the taxi. 

“Thank you, sir,” pocketing Warren’s leave-tak¬ 
ing tip. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll take care of every¬ 
thing,” at Helen’s repeated instructions about the 
mail. 

Their baggage piled on the taxi, they were soon 
whirling dockward. 


162 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Well, we’re off!” Warren leaned back and drew 
out a cigar. “Got a fine day to sail.” Then scowl¬ 
ing at her tense rigidity, “Relax! Enjoy it! 
What’re you worrying about? Nothing more you 
can do now.” 

“Oh, I know. I was just wondering if I’d for¬ 
gotten anything.” 

“Safe bet you have—you always do! You’ve 
no system, no memory! Why if I ran my busi¬ 
ness- For the love of Lulu! Where’d I get 

that?” 

Fumbling in his vest-pocket for a match, he had 
drawn out a small flat key. 

“My key! My trunk key!” Helen pounced on 
it. “How did you get it? How—” 

“That’s what I’d like to know.” 

“It fell out of the lock! I KNEW it was there! 
You picked it up and put it in your pocket.” 

“By Jove, don’t remember it, but guess that’s 
right,” with a reluctant grin. 

“And you scolding about my memory—with 
that key in your pocket! If I hadn’t lost all that 
time looking for it—I wouldn’t have been so flur¬ 
ried getting off. I’d have drawn that curtain my¬ 
self and not pulled it off the roller and-” 

“That’s right, rub it in! You hadn’t a darn 
thing to do but pack a few duds. I’d all my busi¬ 
ness and everything else on my mind! And you’ll 
have it mighty soft from now on. Nothing to do 
but loaf along—while I hustle every minute. 
Here, take your key and keep your trap shut. No 
chewing the rag on THIS trip!” 




Helen Revels in the Thrilled Sensa¬ 
tion of Being a Celebrity’s Wife 

“And a dressing room!” Helen drew back the 
cretonne curtain from the tiny alcove with its run¬ 
ning water and mirrored cabinets. “Why, dear, 
we’ve never had such a wonderful stateroom!” 

“Not bad,” Warren was getting out his steamer 
cap. “Here comes your trunk. Where d’you want 
it?” 

“Right here, back of the door,” Helen directed 
the perspiring steward. “No, it stands up—a ward¬ 
robe trunk. The other one goes under the berth.” 

“Two trunks, two suitcases and a steamer roll,” 
counted Warren. “That’s all,” dismissing the man 
with a tip. 

“Dear, shove that big suitcase under this berth 
—that’ll give more room. The steamer roll can 
go on top of those life preservers. And we’ll put 
this-” 

“Now you’ve got plenty of time to get settled,” 
opening a bon-voyage box of cigars. “Let’s get up 
on deck. Stevens may be here to see us off.” 

“Mr. Curtis?” one of the ship’s officers was at 
their open door. “The reporters are waiting to see 
you. They’re up in the library.” 

“Reporters?” Warren turned, amazed. 

“Yes, sir; can you come right up? We’ve only 
a few minutes now.” 


163 



164 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Reporters? What in blazes do they want 
with-” 

“Tell them Mr. Curtis will be right up,” broke 
in Helen with a silencing nudge. 

Then, as the officer bowed and withdrew, she 
clutched Warren’s arm with an excited: 

“They want to interview you! Oh, how wonder¬ 
ful! You’re getting famous!” 

“Interview me? What the Sam Hill do they 
want to interview me about?” 

“Business conditions—anything. You won that 
Hillman case—maybe it’s something about that?” 

“Not much, it isn’t! New York reporters don’t 
write up last month’s news.” 

“Here’s your hat—don’t wear that old steamer 
cap! Oh, I WISH you’d worn your new suit. 
Wait, you’ve got something on your sleeve—let me 
brush it off.” 

“Here, I’m not dolling up for any reporters,” 
jerking away. “Must be hard up for celebrities on 
this boat, if they have to interview me.” 

“Don’t say that!” following him down the cor¬ 
ridor. “Let them think you’re used to being inter¬ 
viewed. Oh, it’ll be WONDERFUL! I’ll write 
Carrie to save the article. Find out what paper 
it’ll be in.” 

“Huh, they’ll probably get out a special,” snorted 
Warren, as he strode ahead down the long white 
corridor. 

The main stairway was crowded with “visitors,” 
friends and relatives of the five hundred passen- 



HELEN AND WARREN 165 

gers sailing on the S.S. Paris. Everywhere the 
buzz of farewells. 

“Mr. Curtis!” The same officer, now stationed 
at the library door, put a detaining hand on War¬ 
ren’s arm. 

Helen, just back of him, in a flutter of pride and 
wonderment, saw him instantly surrounded by a 
group of reporters with open notebooks. 

“How long do you expect to be abroad, Mr. 
Curtis?” was the first question. 

“About two months,” brusqued Warren, glaring 
about suspiciously. 

“What countries will you visit?” from a youth in 
a snuff-brown suit. 

“France, Switzerland, England,” none too gra¬ 
ciously. 

“Is this a business or a pleasure trip?” 

“Both,” curtly. 

“I suppose you want to look over conditions for 
yourself? Would you care to make any statement 
as to the outlook here?” 

“No, I’ve nothing to say,” Warren drew back to 
end the interview. 

“Will you step out on deck, Mr. Curtis? We’d 
like to take some pictures. Is this Mrs. Curtis?” 
turning to Helen. “We’d like you in this, too.” 

“See here, I don’t know why you want my pic¬ 
ture,” blustered Warren. “1’p? not going to-” 

“We won’t keep you a foment, Mr. Curtis,” 
apologetically. “The photographers are all ready. 
This way, Mrs. Curtis.” 



166 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Out on the sunlit boat deck two photographers 
had their cameras set. 

Helen, in a whirl of emotions, gave flurried 
touches to her hair and veil. 

“If you’ll stand here, Mr. Curtis—right by the 
rail. Now, Mrs. Curtis, if you’ll stand beside your 
husband,” as Helen shrank back with well-feigned 
reluctance. “Just a moment, please,” waving aside 
an approaching passenger. 

For Helen it was an intoxicating moment. She 
could see the group of passengers looking on with 
envious interest. A passing steward was uncere¬ 
moniously checked. No one was allowed within 
the hallowed radius of the cameras. 

“Look this way, Mrs. Curtis,” as Helen, who 
always liked her profile pictures best, looked out 
to sea. “That’s better; now hold that pose, please.” 

The deafening blast of a whistle. 

“All visitors off!” shouted an officer coming 
down the deck. 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Curtis,” one of the 
reporters stepped up after the click of the cameras. 

“We hope you’ll have something to say on your 
return.” 

A moment later, following Warren down the 
deck, Helen was glowingly conscious of the admir¬ 
ing glances of the other passengers. To be a celeb¬ 
rity—or, rather, the wife of a celebrity! 

Her thoughts leaped ahead. Might not this be 
the beginning of Warren’s career? 

Already a successful corporation lawyer, with 


HELEN AND WARREN 


167 


his forceful dynamic personality, what might he 
not achieve? District Attorney, Mayor, Governor— 
Her mind quailed before the possibilities of further 
greatness. 

“Dear, did I look all right?” in an anxious 
whisper as they turned down the corridor to their 
stateroom. “Did I stand well? Did I look self- 
conscious?” 

“Didn’t notice,” with exasperating indifference. 
“Don’t see what they wanted our mugs for. Must 
be hard up for news. Ought’ve turned ’em down.” 

“Why, it’s a wonderful thing to be interviewed 
like that! Here’s our stateroom—142. It’s won¬ 
derful publicity!” 

“Huh, lot of good it’ll do me. I’m not a movie 
star. Where’d you put that steamer cap?” tossing 
his hat on an upper rack. “I’m going out on deck.” 

“Wait, dear, give me some stamps. I’m afraid I 
squinted—the sun was right in my eyes. But you 
looked wonderful! I loved the careless way you 
stood there, your hat on—leaning on your cane.” 

“Only got four,” he was searching his wallet 
for stamps. “That enough?” 

“Yes. I’ll just acknowledge these flowers and 
the two baskets. And I’ll write Carrie to get all 
the papers tomorrow—a lot of copies if the pic¬ 
tures are good. I’m afraid I moved. Will that mat¬ 
ter in a snapshot?” 

“Huh, those newspaper pictures are always rot¬ 
ten. Who’s this from?” punching through the 
glazed paper of a steamer basket. 


168 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“The Daltons. Oh, don’t eat anything now. It’ll 
spoil your lunch.” 

But Warren strode out munching some large hot¬ 
house grapes, pinched from a ribbon-tied bunch. 

Left alone, Helen wrote three hurried notes, ac¬ 
knowledging the steamer gifts. Then the important 
letter to Carrie: 


“S. S. Paris 

Dear Carrie: 

A glorious morning to sail. We have a 
nice big stateroom—two beds, a desk and 
a tiny alcove. Think we will be most com¬ 
fortable. 

We had quite a send-off. Three re¬ 
porters interviewed Warren and took our 
pictures. Will be in the papers tomorrow. 
Don’t know just which ones, but please 
get them all. Would like twenty-five 
copies of any that are good—get ten, 
anyhow. 

Love to all, hastily, 

HELEN.” 

Hurrying up to mail the letters in the box 
marked “Pilot Mail,” Helen was again throbbingly 
conscious of the interested glances that followed 
her. 

With flushed elation she remembered how, on 
other trips, she had watched the celebrities who 
had been photographed before they sailed. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


169 


If only she had brought more clothes, so she 
could better “dress” the part. 

Back in the stateroom, unpacking and straight¬ 
ening out for the voyage, she planned the best 
presentation of her meager wardrobe. 

As celebrities they would probably sit at the cap¬ 
tain’s table. They must dress for dinner every 
night—and she had brought only one evening gown. 

But she had her gray crepe. Turned down in 
the neck and worn with her chiffon scarf, it would 
be semi-evening. 

She had decided on the pose she would main¬ 
tain throughout the voyage. A slightly “reserved 
aloofness” she thought most effective for a 
celebrity’s wife. 

Blissfully happy, she was rehearsing various 
phases of this pose, how she could be “friendly and 
charming” but still “aloof,” when Warren swung 
in. 

His cap was tilted at an irate angle. His eyes 
fairly blazed, even his cigar had a wrathful glow. 

“Did you write Carrie to get those papers?” 

“Why—why, yes,” quailing before his menac¬ 
ing glare. 

“What’d you say? Get off a lot of hot air ’bout 
me being interviewed?” 

“I had to say why I wanted the papers. But 
why, dear, why-” 

“You’ve made a blooming fool of me—and 
yourself, too.” 

“What do you mean? What-” 




170 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Those damned reporters wanted G. L. Curtis— 
the Pittsburgh steel man! Canceled his passage. I 
was the only Curtis on board—so they pounced on 
me.” 

In crimson dismay and humiliation Helen sank 
down on the berth. 

“Then—then there won’t be a THING in the 
papers about me?” 

“Hope not! Lucky I found it out from a man on 
board who knew him. Had the purser send back a 
wireless to kill the story.” 

“Oh!” in tremulous disappointment. “Did you 
need to do that?” 

“I most emphatically DID! Think I’d let that 
fool story go through? Won’t those reporters be 
sore? And the camera men? The way you 
primped up—and licked your chops over it! Ha, 
ha, not a bad joke—if it is on us!” 

“I don’t see any joke about it,” crushing back 
her tearful disappointment. “We had nothing to 
do with it. They came to you for an interview, 
and-” 

“Mighty glad I cut it short. If I’d shot off my 
mouth as you wanted me to—we’d have looked a 
lot bigger fools than we do. Cheer up, Kitten, 
we’re not celebrities—and I’m darned glad of it. 
There goes the lunch gong! Ready? Well, hustle 
now. After that six o’clock breakfast, I can do 
some expert work with a knife and fork!” 



Warren’s Dominant Insistence Forces 
Helen to a Strategic Evasion 

The dressing gong! 

Above the roar of the waves and throb of 
machinery came the resonant boom that heralded 
the dressing hour. 

Dinner! A long course dinner in the suffocat¬ 
ing saloon—with every porthole closed! 

From the mere thought of food Helen shrank 
with shuddery revulsion. Yet she had promised 
Warren to try to go in for dinner. 

His own stomach cast-iron, he had no sympathy 
with seasickness. 

“Get out on deck,” he kept urging. “Don’t lie 
here and coddle yourself.” 

That morning she had dressed and dragged her¬ 
self out to their deck chairs. But a half hour 
watching the mountainous waves had sent her back 
to the stateroom, white and shaken. 

All day she had lain there fighting the nausea 
and black depression. 

A brisk step down the corridor and the door 
swung open. 

“Hello, all in the dark?” Warren breezed in. 
“Didn’t you hear the gong?” 

“Dear, I don’t think I can go in to dinner,” shad¬ 
ing her eyes as he switched on the lights. “I don’t 
feel a bit better.” 

“You won’t—lying there. Get up and get 
171 


172 


HELEN AND WARREN 


dressed. I’d be sick, too, if I stuck here,” peeling 
off his coat. “Where’re my dress shoes?” 

“At the foot of your berth. They may have 
slid back—it’s rolling so. Oh, dear, pick up that 
hot-water bag—it’s fallen out of the rack. And 
push those books back—they’re just about to 
tumble off.” 

“If you wouldn’t unpack so much stuff—it 
wouldn’t be falling all over the place,” fishing out 
his shoes. 

“I only take out what we need for the trip,” 
sinking back on the pillow at a deeper lurch of the 
ship. 

“For the love of Lulu, here’s that cork you made 
such a fuss about! How in blazes did it get in my 
shoe?” 

“Put it back, dear, in that cologne bottle on the 
washstand. That’s just paper I stopped it up with. 
And hand me those smelling salts—they rolled off 
the bed.” 

“I’m dressing,” curtly. “Get the steward to wait 
on you. If you’re going to stay here, you want to 
order your dinner, anyway.” 

“No, no, I don’t want a thing.” 

“Now see here, you’ll not get any better if you 
don’t eat. I’ll order it myself before I go in. 
Damation!” as a lurch sent him against the ward¬ 
robe trunk, knocking the shirt studs from his hand. 

“There’s one by my slipper,” Helen leaned from 
her berth to help his clumsy, irate search. “There’s 
another—be careful, you’ll step on it.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


173 


Warren was thrusting in the recovered studs, 
grumbling, as always, at the overstarched button¬ 
holes, when the steward appeared. 

“Did you ring, sir?” 

“Yes. Mrs. Curtis’ll have her dinner here. What 
have you tonight?” 

“Here’s the card, sir,” drawing a menu from his 
white coat pocket. 

“Let’s see,” Warren scanned the items with the 
lively interest he always bestowed on a dinner 
card. 66 St. Germain soup. How does that strike 
you?” 

“Oh, dear, no soup!” shudderingly. “Just dry 
toast and tea.” 

“Now you’re going to eat something! You 
haven’t had a thing all day. Here’s squab en 
casserole —you like that. And artichoke.” 

“Not now, dear. Oh, not those rich things now! 
I couldn’t look at them!” 

“Well, here under the cold meats is sliced 
chicken. How about that? Cold chicken, baked 
potato and salad—nothing rich about that.” 

“Very well,” resignedly, “but no dressing on 
the salad—and no butter.” 

The order given, as the door closed after the 
steward Helen turned her face to the wall, fighting 
the dizzy nausea brought on by the least exertion. 

“Where’s my clothes brush?” growled Warren. 
“Bet you forgot to put it in.” 

“Right there in your suitcase,” weakly. “The 
left-hand side.” 


174 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Want me to wait till that Johnnie brings your 
dinner?” Warren, now dressed, was brushing his 
dinner coat. 

“No, no, dear, you go on in—I’ll be all right. 
Turn off some of those lights. No, that one there 
—it shines right in my eyes.” 

“Don’t go to sleep now. Your dinner’ll be here 
in a minute. Here’re those almonds—if you want 
something to nibble on.” 

As the door banged after him Helen thrust away 
the jar of nuts. Something to nibble on! Food! 
Food! Was it all he ever thought about? 

She closed her eyes to shut out his bathrobe 
swaying on the wall. All day it had hung there 
swinging back and forth. 

If she could have some air! But waves still 
lashed against the porthole. 

A knock! 

The steward entered with a napkin-covered 
tray. 

“Set it on that chair—I won’t have it just yet. 
Will you take down that bathrobe? It keeps swing¬ 
ing. Yes, that’s all,” dismissingly. 

The tray, as always on the French line, was 
daintily appetizing. Two thin slices of chicken, 
white meat, a baked potato, and lettuce and tomato 
salad. A crisp dinner roll and a square of un¬ 
salted butter. In the glass of water glistened a piece 
of ice—the discerning steward’s tribute to Ameri¬ 
cans. 

But, at a sickening pitch, Helen curled down. 


HELEN AND WARREN 175 

Quiet—just to lie there, not to move or speak. 
Just now life had nothing better to offer. 

A warning clink of dishes. Would they slide 
off? She should set the tray on the floor—but she 
shrank from even that slight exertion. 

What was that flapping sound? The buttons on 
Warren’s sweater hanging by the door. With every 
roll of the ship it swung against the woodwork. 

Only the third day out! Five more days of this 
before they reached Havre! 

She tried to think of Paris, London. And this 
year they were going to Switzerland. Geneva— 
Lucerne! But even the thrill of unexplored foreign 
cities failed to distract her now. Nothing seemed 
worth this anguish. 

If only she could drowse off again. Her only 
relief was in fitful dozes. 

An hour later Warren, slamming in, roused her 
from a kindly oblivion. 

“Well, how goes it?” his geniality proclaiming 
he had dined well. “Feeling better?” 

“Not much,” shrinking from his briskness. 

“Get enough to eat?” Then, as he saw the un¬ 
touched tray, “What’s the matter? What’re you 
waiting for?” ^ 

“Dear, I just couldn’t-” 

“Now, none of that,” sternly. “You’ll not be 
better till you get some food in your stomach. Here, 
I’ll fix you. Want this chicken cut up? Nice 
mealy potato?” he was scooping it out. “How d’you 
want it? Little butter?” 



176 


HELEN AND WARREN 


The napkin spread over the bedcovers, he placed 
on it the plate with the cut-up chicken and scooped- 
out potato. 

“There you are! Now go to it—I want to see 
you eat.” He was standing inexorably over her. 

Helen gulped and forked at a bit of chicken. 

“Don’t play with it, eat it!” brutally. “You’ve 
humored yourself long enough. Your stomach’ll 
not be any better till you put something in it.” 

A knock at the half-open door, and the steward 
entered. 

“There’s a big ship out here, sir. She’s all lit 
up. You can see her from your porthole.” 

After the monotony of three days at sea, the 
diversion of a passing steamer was an event worthy 
of being announced by an attentive steward. 

“By Jove, she’s near!” Warren was peering out 
the dripping porthole. “She’s four funnels. Must 
be the Aquitania —she’s due in New York Satur¬ 
day.” 

“Go out on deck, dear, you can’t see here.” 

“You eat your dinner”—snatching his cap. “I’ll 
be back in a minute.” 

Alone, Helen forked at the cut-up chicken. 
Tremulously she lifted a morsel to her lips. No, 
she COULD not! 

Yet how escape Warren’s grim conviction that 
food was what she needed? Once he took a stand 
he was inflexible. If he found the plate still un¬ 
touched— 

But why should he? Why could she not- 




HELEN AND WARREN 


177 


For the moment her seasickness was surmounted 
by a flashing inspiration. 

Rising on her elbow she snatched a magazine 
from the rack above. Turning to the advertising 
pages in the back, ruthlessly she tore out a leaf. 

Then, with anxious glances toward the door, she 
scraped the chicken and potato from the plate on 
to the smiling countenance of the inane blonde 
advertising a popular tooth paste. 

Quickly made into a small parcel, protected by 
another advertisement so the grease would not soak 
through, she thrust it on the rack under her dress¬ 
ing gown. It would be safe there until she could 
throw it overboard. 

She had just settled back on the pillow and was 
crumbling the roll which had been too large to dis¬ 
pose of when Warren strode back. 

“It’s the Aquitania, all right. She just sent a 
wireless that there’s a storm ahead of us. That’s 
why she’s late—about five hours.” 

“A storm?” quivered Helen. “It’s going to be 
worse than this?” 

“Don’t call this a storm, do you? Want it a 
little rough so you’ll know you’re at sea.” 

Then his glance fell on the depleted plate. 

“Fine, Kitten! Licked it up, did you? That’s 
great. Feel better all ready, don’t you?” 

“A little,” truthfully, for the mere removal of 
food had brought some relief. 

“What’d I tell you? All you needed was food. 
Can’t run an engine without coal. Stoking up— 


178 


HELEN AND WARREN 


that’s what you wanted. Feel like a nap now? 
I’m going up in the smoking room. Want these 
lights out?” 

Giving her tumbled hair a heavy pat, meant fol 
an approving caress, he took a handful of cigars 
from a bon-voyage box and switched off the lights. 

“Now you have a snooze,” as he swung out. 
“You’ll be all right in the morning. A good break¬ 
fast and lunch tomorrow and you’ll be playing 
shuffleboard before dinner!” 

Breakfast and lunch tomorrow! And a worse 
storm ahead! 

But Helen’s wretchedness was tempered by an 
ironic exultation as she glanced up at the maga¬ 
zine on the rack above. It was a generously thick 
monthly—plenty of advertising pages for the dis¬ 
creet disposal of future meals! 


PART III 


BICKERING THROUGH EUROPE 



















Warren Growls at the Old-World Dis¬ 
comforts of a Quaint Parisian Hotel 

“They’ll have to give us a better room! We 
can’t sleep in that another night,” Helen, thrusting 
in a final hairpin, gazed resentfully in the mirror 
at the narrow tumbled bed. 

“I slept all right,” Warren poured his coffee 
from the brown glazed pot. 

“Yes, you rolled to the center and I hung over 
the edge. I didn’t sleep an hour all night,” draw¬ 
ing a chair to the small table that held the break¬ 
fast tray. “They told us it was a double bed— 
why it’s hardly three-quarters!” 

“Punk coffee!” grumbled Warren, adding more 
hot milk to the strong chicory mixture. 

“You never get good coffee in Paris. Dear, tell 
them as we go out that we MUST have a room with 
twin beds—or at least a double bed!” 

“All they had last night. Darn lucky to get it,” 
buttering one of the crescent rolls, which, with the 
cafe au lait, comprised the scant French breakfast. 

“When we get in late at night, we have to take 
anything. But we don’t have to stay,” viewing the 
one-windowed room with increased disfavor. 

The fact that it had a bath, a rare luxury in the 
small Parisian hotel, could not compensate for the 
three-quarter, sag-in-the-middle bed. 

“Now stir your stumps!” Warren, crumpling 
181 


182 


HELEN AND WARREN 


his paper napkin, tossed it on the tray. “Got to 
get an early start if we’re to gun up another 
room.” 

Ten minutes later they were walking down the 
three flights. The self-running lift, with typical 
French economy, could be used only to take guests 
up. 

At the office the severe-faced woman, who spoke 
English, said there was no other room. Their 
complaint about the narrow bed, she shruggingly 
dismissed. 

“We often have two people in that room. This 
is the first complaint.” 

“And it’s a good strong one!” brusqued Warren, 
resenting her haughty independence. “If you 
can’t give us another room, we’ll check out.” 

“That is your privilege,” with a frigid smile. 
“I’m afraid you’ll find every hotel in Paris 
full. If you’re leaving, kindly let us know before 
twelve.” 

“I’ll let you know now!” curtly. “We’ll have our 
trunks out by noon.” 

“Oh, she was horrid!” flamed Helen, as they 
passed the bumble-bee-jacketed doorboy, ignoring 
his tip-expectant offer to call a taxi. 

“Crabbed old cluck. Now, where d’we want to 
go first?” waving his cane at a taxi. “A bunch 
of hotels on the Rue Cambon. Want to try along 
there?” 

Her headache from the sleepless night, and her 
rankling resentment at the acid room clerk were 


HELEN AND WARREN 183 

forgotten in the charm of the festive, sunlit streets. 

Paris at nine in the morning! 

The flower stalls! Shawl-headed women with 
great baskets of carnations and roses. The two¬ 
wheeled carts loaded with fresh vegetables—vivid 
greens and reds. Bakery pushcarts heaped with 
glazed bread in yard-long loaves. 

And the outdoor cafes—the real allurements 
of Paris! 

Awnings were being lowered over the sidewalk 
tables. White-aproned waiters were polishing the 
marble tops and bringing out the wicker chairs, 
making ready for the ‘‘aperitif” and “dejeuner” 
trade. 

Shopkeepers, in their long linen coats, were 
arranging their “bargain” wares in trays and 
baskets on the outdoor counters. For the Parisians 
not only love to eat and drink on the street but 
shop there as well. 

Every store, even the great Bon-Marche, Galeries 
Lafayette, and Printemps, has its sidewalk coun¬ 
ters with clerks in charge. Here one may buy every¬ 
thing from sleazy ill-shaped stockings to a flask of 
exquisite French perfume. 

“Quel numero?” called the driver, slowing up 
as they swung into the Rue Cambon. 

Warren motioned him to stop at the first hotel, a 
few houses beyond. 

“Have you reservations?” was the disconcerting 
inquiry of the frosty-faced woman in the office. 
‘No?” icily. “Oh, then we have nothing.” 


184 


HELEN AND WARREN 


‘‘They’re all so independent,” resented Helen 
when they walked on to the next hotel, motioning 
the taxi to follow. 

Again they were told “all our rooms are en¬ 
gaged,” implying that only presumptuous Ameri¬ 
cans would expect rooms without writing or wiring 
in advance. 

At a hotel farther down there was one room— 
a canceled reservation. 

“You look at it. I’ll wait here,” Warren took up 
a risque French weekly. 

The inevitable woman room clerk ushered Helen 
into the tiny lift, pushing the button “3,” which 
took them up to the third floor. 

The room was most attractive with satinwood 
furniture, long red damask window draperies, and 
twin beds. No bath, but running water in the deep 
alcove. 

Inwardly jubilant, Helen inquired the price. 

“Oh, we only want breakfast,” when the woman 
quoted “en pension” terms. 

“Our rooms are rented with all meals,” in 
broken but haughty English. 

“We might take lunch. Would you make a rate 
for breakfast and lunch?” 

“No, madame,” crushingly. “We have only one 
rate.” 

The walk down the red-carpeted stairs was in 
militant silence. 

“Thank you very much,” Helen murmured 


HELEN AND WARREN 


185 


with a warning, “Fll-tell-you-when-we-get-outside” 
glance at Warren. 

“What’s the trouble? Didn’t like it?” as they 
came out into the street. 

“A lovely big room with two beds—but we’d 
have to take all our meals!” 

“That’s the holdup, eh? See ’em to blazes first! 
Paris so filled up with fool Americans chucking 
their coin about—all these hotels are spoiled rotten. 
Well, if we’re to gun around any longer—we’ll let 
this Johnnie go.” 

The taxi dismissed, they tried four other hotels 
in the neighboring streets. All gloatingly an¬ 
nounced “No vacancies.” 

“We’re up against it,” grumped Warren. 
“Guess we’ll have to eat crow and go back to that 
‘ponsian’ place.” 

“And take all our meals there? When we love 
the outdoor restaurants?” 

“Don’t see that we’ve got much choice. Either 
that or a park bench!” 

“Isn’t that a hotel sign over that lace shop? 
Dear, let’s try that.” 

It was a shabby, ancient building. A narrow 
side passage led back of the shop to the hotel that 
opened on a dingy glass-roofed court. 

No one in the small office, they had time to glance 
around. An unpretentious place not fixed up for 
Americans. In the old pigeon-holed mail rack, be¬ 
hind the desk, the few letters were unmistakably 
French. 


186 


HELEN AND WARREN 


A stout woman now emerged from a dark room 
beyond. Not a haughty lady room clerk, but a 
genial proprietress, who spoke but little English. 

Yes, she had two small rooms that went together, 
a bed in each. No, they need not take their meals 
there unless they wished. And the rate for the 
rooms seemed unbelievably cheap. 

“Dear, you come, too,” urged Helen as the 
woman led the way up narrow, dark steps. 

At the top of the second flight she opened the 
door into a tiny low-ceilinged room, with a quaint 
wooden bed. From this, two steps led to the lower 
level of the other room, almost as small. 

The worn, uneven floor, the narrow-paned win¬ 
dows and the low ceilings were eloquent of Old 
Paris. The electric light wire that crossed the 
ceiling, and the stationary washstand in the rear 
room were the only modern notes. 

A maid, clattering up the stairs, summoned her 
mistress to the telephone. 

“The quaintest old-world place!” enthused Helen 
when they were left alone. 

“Huh, too quaint for me! I call this pretty 
ratty,” Warren thumped the low, blistered ceiling 
with his fist. 

“Dear, it’s central and cheap and running water! 
What else do you want?” 

“I’d like a little elbow room. Cheerful view!” 
sarcastically, for the small window looked out on 
warped roofs and sooty chimneys. “Rum old 
joint.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


187 


“But we’re never in our room. We’re out all 
day. Oh, I love these uneven floors—these funny 
old steps down to this other room.” 

“Won’t be so funny if you tumble down there 
and break your neck. Where’ll we put our 
trunks?” he scowled. “Hang ’em on the ceiling?” 

“We’ll have her take that table out and put one 
there.” 

“No closet? No place to hang a blamed thing. 
Not even a clothes-tree.” 

“Look, an old chimney cupboard!” discovering 
a narrow cupboard in the wall. “You can’t see it 
when the door’s closed—papered right over. And 
this queer old grate! Dear, we can go to a modern 
hotel anywhere, but this’s too quaint for words. 
Here she comes! Make a deposit,” eagerly, “so 
we’ll be sure of it.” 

At her nudging insistence Warren made a de¬ 
posit, saying they would bring their trunks at 
once. 

“Dear, why were you so grumpy?” when they 
finally came out through the passage to the street. 
“To find a place like that—and at that price!” 

“Huh, you’d throw a fit at such a dump at home! 
That night at Trenton when we stopped at that hotel 
near the station—you put up an awful howl.” 

“Oh, that was a horrid third-rate place! But 
here it’s part of the atmosphere of Old Paris.” 

“Well, that atmosphere’s pretty thick,” bundling 
her into a taxi. “You’re so all-fired particular about 
things being clean, yet you 0. K. that-” 



188 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“It IS clean! You saw me look at the beds. 
The blankets were brand new.” 

“Didn’t see anything new in that dive. But if 
you can stand for it, I can. You’ve done most of 
the kicking on this trip.” 

“We’re going to love it—I know we are! And 
after all those snippy women—she was so nice and 
motherly. Dear, didn’t you like her?” 

“She was all right,” glumly, lighting a cigar. 

“And think of what we’ll save! I’d have been 
wretched if we’d paid for meals we didn’t have. 
Now we can dine where we please. Oh, tell him to 
stop!” as they whirled by a flower-stall. “I want 
a bunch of violets—just to celebrate.” 

“Now we’ll stop NOwhere!” grimly. “Going 
to get those trunks and then beat it for lunch. After 
eleven now.” 

“And we’ll have a wonderful lunch,” propitiat- 
ingly. “Where shall we go? Jouven’s?” sug¬ 
gesting their favorite outdoor Latin Quarter restau¬ 
rant. 

“Yes, Jouven’s all right. And we’ll have every¬ 
thing on the menu,” belligerently. “No holding me 
down on THIS meal!” 

“No, dear, I won’t try. We’re saving so much 
on the room I won’t say a word. Just think,” 
ecstatically, hugging his arm. “Two weeks in 
Paris! Aren’t you happy? Don’t you love it? 
Oh, you’re SO unresponsive! You just sit back 
and glower.” 

“Can’t expect me to feel very peppy on that 


HELEN AND WARREN 


189 


breakfast. Two measly rolls and a cup of bum 
coffee,” with a snort. “Just wait till I sink a little 
real food in this yawning vacuum! Then we’ll sail 
out and do up the town!” 


The Gloom of a Rainy Sunday in Paris 
Under a Quaint but Leaky Roof 

All morning it had rained, a steady drizzle. 
Wet, warped roofs, bristling with sooty chimneys, 
was the dismal outlook from the small-paned win¬ 
dows. 

Softly Helen tiptoed about, fearful lest the 
creaky old floor awake Warren. If he would sleep 
until lunch she would have time to unpack, get up 
the laundry, and write some postcards. 

Three weeks of fast continental traveling with 
no stops long enough for laundry or repairs made 
her welcome this rainy Sunday morning. Here was 
a chance to get washed up, mended, and 
straightened out. 

Paris, crowded as always, Helen had exulted in 
their discovery of these two tiny rooms in a quaint 
old-world house. But this gloomy morning their 
quaintness seemed somewhat sordid, and she 
thought almost regretfully of the modern hotel 
Warren had urged. 

At least there was running water. The station¬ 
ary washstand, plainly recently installed, seemed 
an incongruous note in these antiquated rooms. 

But the hot-water faucet gave only a halting 
tepid flow, prolonging the task of washing silk 
underthings that she dare not trust to the laundry. 

Where could she hang them? No place in her 
190 


HELEN AND WARREN 


191 


down-lwo-steps cubby-hole room, which held only 
a narrow couch-bed, one chair, and the washstand. 

Warren’s room offered possibilities for a line; 
but she had no string. 

With her usual ingenuity she pounced on the cord 
in his bathrobe. Pieced out with a corset lace it 
stretched from the bedpost to a hook by the door. 
On this improvised line she hung her gloves, stock¬ 
ings and lingerie. 

A stir from the bed. A yawn, a flop, and a 
sleepy, “You up? What time is it?” 

“Oh, don’t wake yet, dear! It’s a wretched 
rainy morning. You might as well rest. It’s Sun¬ 
day—there’s nothing you can do.” 

“What the Sam Hill’s all that?” glaring at her 
“wash.” 

“Just some silk things I couldn’t send to the laun¬ 
dry.” 

“Well, while you’re fussing around, sew that 
button on my overcoat.” 

“Yes, I’m going to—and mend your raincoat and 
that pocket in your gray vest. Oh, don’t get that 
comforter next to your face! Let me fix it.” 

“Thought you said this place was so all-fired 
clean?” he grumbled as she folded the sheet over 
the dubious dark red comforter. 

“You never want any hotel bedclothes to touch 
your face. That’s why I loved the way they button 
on the sheets in Holland. There!” tucking him in. 
“Now sleep until twelve. I’ll have everything 
straight then, and we’ll go out and have a wonder- 


192 HELEN AND WARREN 

ful lunch. Does that shine in your eyes? I can 
shade it.” 

To dispel some of the dismal gloom she had 
turned on the solitary bulb that hung from a wire 
run across the low ceiling. 

“There, isn’t that better?” fixing an envelope as 
a one-sided shade. 

Warren dozing off again, she bundled up the 
clothes for the laundry and ripped the linen collar 
from her gray suit to be dry cleaned. 

She was checking off her “To Do” list scribbled 
on the train: 

Button on W’s overcoat 
Pocket gray vest 
Mend raincoat 
Spot on tan skirt 
Elastic in bloomers 
Two snaps blue crepe 
Spot on dinner coat 

Always when traveling, a list of all needed re¬ 
pairs saved time. And now this rainy morning, 
with Warren asleep, was ideal for getting every¬ 
thing in shape, ready for a strenuous two weeks in 
Paris. 

The things she had still to buy! While she 
sponged off spots and mended, Helen jotted down, 
as she thought of them, the dreaded “presents” that 
always hung over her European trips. 

Experience had disillusioned her as to the Paris 
shops. Most things she could get better at home. 
But gifts “from Paris” were always impressive. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


193 


Gloves, perfume, jet jewelry, and anything hand- 
embroidered, were the best values. 

The first thing in the morning she would start 
out for the Bon-Marche. 

No, it would be closed! All the big Paris shops 
instead of closing Saturday afternoon did not open 
Mondays until one. 

Then what would she do in the morning? The 
small antique shops! They would be open. She 
would explore along the Rue Bonaparte and the 
Rue du Bac. 

If she could find one of those old book boxes! 
The tooled-bindings, with the leaves cut out, made 
ideal boxes for jewelry or cigarettes. 

“Eh? What in blazes-? What the devil 

you trying to do?” 

Helen sprang up, dropping her thimble, at this 
irate explosion from the bed. 

“What’s the idea? Trying to drown me out?” 
pulling at his pajama sleeves. 

“Why, it’s wet! Oh, dear, the ceiling!” as an¬ 
other drop splashed down. 

On the low, warped ceiling over the bed was 
a dark, moist spot. 

“Somebody upstairs is letting the water run 
over!” dismayed Helen. 

“No upstairs—we’re on the top floor. This 
rotten old roof’s leaking!” 

Out of bed, he shrugged into his bathrobe. 

“Darnation!” as he fumbled vainly for the cord. 

“Oh, wait, dear. I’ve got it! Here’s a safety 



194 


HELEN AND WARREN 


pin. I didn’t have a thing to hang these clothes on.” 

“Well of all the cast-iron nerve!” glaring at his 
tasseled cord that supported Helen’s wash. 

“Quick, we’ll have to move the bed!” as a drop 
fell on the pillow. 

But the old four-poster almost filled the tiny 
room. They could not move it far enough to 
escape the drip. 

“Wait, I’ll put something under it,” desperately 
Helen glanced about. 

There was nothing but the soap dish from the 
washstand. 

“Where’s that bone-headed maid? Punch that 
bell!” 

“It’s not the punching kind,” turning to the old 
bell rope by the door. 

The maid could not speak English, but the soap 
dish on the bed and the wet spot on the ceiling 
needed no interpretation. 

“Oui, oui, monsieur! Oui, oui!” excitedly she 
dashed out. 

“Dear, what can they do to the roof in the rain, 
and on Sunday?” 

“Not a darn thing! How’m I going to sleep 
there tonight? Here’s where you get your fill of 
these ‘quaint old’ hotels.” 

“This doesn’t catch it,” moving the soap dish a 
cautious inch. “Oh, look, you don’t want them to 
see this!” taking from under his pillow his wallet, 
bulky with bills, passport, and letter of credit. 
“Where’ll I put it?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


195 


“Here, give it to me.” He thrust it into the inner 
pocket of his coat, hanging over a chair. 

A heavy step on the linoleumed stairs and the 
stout proprietress entered. She carried a tin pan 
which she placed triumphantly on the bed under the 
drip. 

With a little English, many gestures, and much 
French, she explained they would put a tub in the 
garret under the leak until tomorrow. 

Uncomfortably conscious of her laundry line, 
Helen hastened to show that she had not done all 
the wash, by bringing out the large bundle with the 
list. 

“While you’re here I’ll explain about the laun¬ 
dry. I can’t make the maid understand. Mr. 
Curtis likes his collars with a dull finish.” 

“Ze dull finish?” blankly. 

“Wait, I’ll show you,” getting out the round 
leather bag. “Like this—THIS!” with shrill em¬ 
phasis, holding up one with a dull finish. “NOT 
like this,” indicating the objectionable continental 
polish of another. 

With effusive promises that covered both the leak 
and the collars, the woman bowed herself out. 

“You can yell at ’em till you’re black in the face, 
but you’ll never get a decent laundered collar in 
Europe,” grunted Warren. “Bet they’ll come back 
shiny as celluloid.” 

“I’m afraid she didn’t like these things hanging 
here,” worriedly. “They never want you to wash 
in your room.” 


196 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Huh, anything but murder goes in this rickety 
old dump!” 

“Dear, that catches it,” as a drop thumped in the 
tin pan. 

“Big enough! Pretty hard to miss it. Fat 
chance of getting any sleep here tonight, if this 
keeps up,” slippering down the two steps to the 
washstand in her room. 

Scowlingly he tested the reluctant luke warm 
flow. 

“Yank that bell! I can’t shave without hot 
water. What d’they call it? Something that rhymes 
with mud.” 

“ Chaude laughed Helen, as she rang the bell. 
“Dear, it’s so rainy, you’d better put on your old 
gray suit.” 

“Hole in the vest pocket.” 

“I just fixed that—and the button, too. Dear, 
instead of getting them both in London why not 
get one suit here? You’ve never tried a French 
tailor.” 

“No, and don’t intend to. Think I’m going to 
wear one of those skin-tight, pinch-chested outfits? 
Look like they get into ’em with a shoe horn. Ex¬ 
pect me to shave with this?” sniffing Helen’s 
scented soap. 

“Here’s your shaving soap,” taking it from the 
suitcase. Then as the maid entered with Warren’s 
polished shoes, “Pitcher of hot water. Eau chaude 
— chaude!” 

“ Oui , oui, Madame scurrying off. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


197 


“Dear, doesn’t it look a little lighter?” Helen 
peered out over the old warped roofs. “We’ll have 
a wonderful afternoon, if it’ll only clear up.” 

“Coming down pretty lively now,” standing back 
of her. “Rum neighborhood you dug up. What’re 
all those old shanties? Been here since the year 
one.” 

“Why it’s the quaintest old-world part of Paris! 
Lot of artists live around here. Dear, in this mist 
—doesn’t that look like an etching? Those old 
gabled roofs are always picturesque.” 

“Picturesque?” with a snort. “If they’re all as 
leaky as this one—must hive a damp bunch of 
artists.” 

Then, as he turned back to the all-important proc¬ 
ess of shaving: 

“Now if they don’t get that leak plugged up by 
night—I’ll sleep in your bed and you’ll park on a 
chair! I’m going to see that you get a good dose 
of this ‘quaint picturesque’ bunk,” grimly. “Maybe 
next time you’ll be satisfied with a first-class hotel 
instead of gunning up one of these ratty, leaky 
‘old-world’ joints!” 


A Discordant Trip to Florence With 
Count Morello and His Invalid 
Daughter 

“Dear, if you tip the guard—we might have this 
compartment to ourselves.” 

“Fat chance of that in this crowded train! 
Darned lucky to get these window seats.” Warren 
was piling their bags on the racks overhead. 

“Oh, wait, don’t put that one up,” protested 
Helen. “I want it for a footstool,” always an 
essential to her comfort. 

“Want a magazine?” as a stand of Italian, 
French and English periodicals rolled along the 
platform. 

“You might get a London paper. Oh, they’re 
coming in here! All those bags!” 

A heavily-burdened porter wedged in, followed 
by a pompous, excited Italian, who vociferously 
directed the placing of his bulky luggage. 

Pushing up the arm between the two seats by 
Helen, he arranged a rug and pillow for someone to 
lie down. 

Then, mopping his perspiring face, he dashed 
out down the corridor. 

“A child or someone ill?” wondered Helen, ap¬ 
praising the expensive bags, all lettered, “E. L. 
M., Rome.” 

The signore re-entered supporting a young girl, 
198 


HELEN AND WARREN 199 

plainly his daughter. The signora fpllowed, carry¬ 
ing another rug and more small packages. 

With voluble solicitude they hovered over the 
girl—removed her wraps, covered her up, and then 
proceeded to take her temperature. 

Strikingly pretty, with large dark eyes and 
lustrous hair, she did not look ill. But her parents 
watched every languid, listless move with acute 
distress. 

The mother, handsome but stout, was chafing her 
hands; while from one of the numerous bags, the 
father produced a bottle of medicine. 

The thermometer removed, they all three ex¬ 
amined it with agitated comments. 

Next a spoonful of the medicine was admin¬ 
istered, its bitterness appeased by some chocolates 
from an ornate box of bonbons. 

Now the corridor door was pushed open by a 
florid man with two bags. 

Only five passengers in the compartment, he 
claimed the sixth seat. 

With amused interest, Helen watched the vehe¬ 
ment argument. The chorused indignation of the 
parents, with much gesturing toward the indisposed 
signorina. 

Sullenly he withdrew to stand in the corridor, 
proving all the compartments were full. 

As the train drew out, again their door was 
opened by a bustling, portly woman. 

Ignoring the excited protests, she demanded a 
seat. The girl must occupy only one, or her father 


200 


HELEN AND WARREN 


must relinquish his—which he finally did. While 
the man standing outside glowered in—regretting 
his reluctant gallantry. 

“I was betting on her,” chuckled Warren. “Knew 
she wouldn’t be ousted!” 

“Sh—sh, dear, they may understand English,” 
Helen warned. 

“Not this bunch!” their unresponsive faces prov¬ 
ing he was right. 

“Isn’t the girl pretty?” relieved that she could 
talk. “She doesn’t look ill.” 

“If she’s not she will be—the way they’re fussin’ 
over her. Don’t leave her alone a minute. What’s 
this they’re diggin’ out now? More medicine?” 

But it was only eau de cologne with which they 
bathed her forehead. 

Next a large thermos bottle was produced, but 
the proffered cup of milk was languidly waved 
away. 

At this, anxious emotional tears from the mother! 
Tremulous dabs at reddened eyes with a lace hand¬ 
kerchief from a gold purse. 

The father was now fumbling in still another 
valise. This time he took out a napkin and a plump 
roll sandwich. 

To Helen’s amazement the girl sat up and dis¬ 
patched the sandwich with celerity. 

This display of appetite made everybody feel 
better. The mother dried her tears, sank into her 
seat, and disposed of a sandwich herself; while her 
husband, standing up, bolted two! 


HELEN AND WARREN 


201 


The daughter, again lying down, reassumed her 
listless air while the rug was tenderly, garrulously 
tucked about her. 

Having no seat, the father now withdrew to the 
corridor, where he was soon amiably conversing 
with the florid Italian he had ejected. 

“Dear, look, they’re like children! A moment 
ago they were at daggers’ points—now he’s offer¬ 
ing him a cigar! And now these two!” 

For the mother was also unburdening her anxiety 
to the woman beside her, who, equally forgetful of 
the contested seat, responded with effusive sym¬ 
pathy. 

But Helen felt this friendly Latin good-nature 
did not extend to them. After the first glance, 
which appraised them as Americans, not once 
had any of the party seemed conscious of their 
presence. 

A sudden turn of the train and the setting sun 
now shone through the window on the sleeping girl. 

Instantly the mother jumped up. Murmuring 
something that might or might not have been an 
apology, she leaned over Helen, and drew the dark¬ 
ening shade. 

“She could’ve asked me to do it,” flushed Helen. 
“I was just going to.” 

They were pulling into a station now. A typical 
noisy, cluttered Italian station—with two uniformed 
carabinieres strutting up and down. 

Venders of fruits and refreshments ran shouting 
along the platform. 


202 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Want some sandwiches?” demanded Warren. 
“Two hours before we get to Florence.” 

“No, I wouldn’t eat these station sandwiches. 
You can get some grapes.” 

Lowering the window, he leaned out and hailed 
the fruit man. 

“Dear, don’t shut it! Leave it open awhile. 
It’s SO stuffy!” 

But the window was not to stay open. At an 
excited, gestured protest from the mother, Warren 
was forced to close it. 

“Dear, it’s stifling! Six people in here! Surely 
we can have it open a little? If she’s sick—she 
ought to have air.” 

“They don’t seem to think so,” he shrugged. 
“Now you know what you’re up against over here 
—none of these foreigners want any air!” 

At the next station the portly woman got out. 
The father came in from the corridor, took the va¬ 
cated seat and rang for the guard. 

Were they going to play cards? wondered Helen, 
when a folding table was brought in. 

No, it was an expensive fitted lunch hamper they 
were now opening. 

An elaborate meal was soon spread out. Roast 
chicken, boiled eggs, sardellas, sandwiches, cheese, 
fruit, wine, and other packages not yet opened. 

“Able to take nourishment! Shifts her grub like 
a lumberjack,” grinned Warren, as the girl dug 
her small white teeth into her second drumstick. 

“If she’s sick, how can they let her eat like 


HELEN AND WARREN 


203 


that?” marvelled Helen, seemingly intent on the 
darkness outside, which made of the window a per¬ 
fect mirror. 

“Always bawl me out for eating fast. Now you 
see the real thing.” 

“They just gulp! No wonder they get stout,” 
self-righteously. “It’s coarsening to eat like 
that!” 

“Well let ’em stoke up in peace. Stop lampin’ 
every bite they take!” 

“They don’t know I’m watching them,” still 
intent on the reflecting window. “Oh, what’s he 
unwrapping now? Cake? Two cakes! And 
they’re giving her a piece of both! Dear, if she 
isn’t sick—she WILL be!” 

“Don’t worry, that’s only a snack for them. 
They eat over here—don’t peck at things like you 
do.” 

The girl, again lying down and covered up, her 
parents, stuffed to drowsy repletion, settled back 
for a nap. 

But the one electric light seemed to annoy them. 
Without a “by-your-leave” the man reached up and 
pulled down the little darkening bag—the night 
shade, with which all first-class compartments are 
equipped. 

“Do we have to stand for that?” flamed Helen. 
“They’ve shut out all the air—and now the light! 
Why should we sit here in the dark? It isn’t night 
—it’s only seven!” 

“No use kickin’ up a fuss now. We’ll be there 


204 


HELEN AND WARREN 


in an hour. If it weren’t for the sick girl—I’d 
have marred his mug long ago!” 

“But she ISN’T sick! If she were—I’d put up 
with anything! To eat like that—and then make 
us sit here without any air or light!” 

“Yes, that’s pretty thick. Come on, we’ll stand 
outside.” 

Cautiously climbing over protruding knees, they 
slid back the door and stole out into the lighted 
corridor. 

“Dear, we’ll stay here until we get in,” as they 
stood by an open window, taking deep breaths of 
the fresh night air. 

The moon-silvered mountains, the lights of dis¬ 
tant villas, the black reflecting lakes—the fra¬ 
grance of fields and woods! 

To Helen it was an enchanting hour that compen¬ 
sated for the discomforts of the trip. But Warren, 
tired, hungry, and irritable, was grumpily unre¬ 
sponsive. 

At last thickening lights and houses proclaimed 
the outskirts of Florence. 

“Better be getting our bags,” he tossed his cigar 
out the window. 

Entering the still dark and airless compartment, 
Helen gasped her amazement. 

The sleeping family had appropriated the whole 
carriage. The signora was lying down, her feet 
extending into Warren’s seat. While in Helen’s 
snored the bulky signore . 

“Well, that’s what you might call nerve!” War- 


HELEN AND WARREN 


205 


ren jerked the darkening shade from the light. 

But neither the sudden glare, the noisy lugging 
down of their bags, nor the escaping steam as they 
roared into the station, aroused any of the trio. 

“Couldn’t wake ’em with a bomb!” he grunted, 
shrugging into his ulster. 

Taking down her traveling coat, Helen read the 
tag on a large seal bag: “Count Morello, Villa 
Fontana, Rome.” 

“Look! Count Morello!” she whispered, with 
an excited nudge. “Why, dear, a COUNT!” 

“What of it?” handing their suitcases out the 
window to a clamoring porter. “You think a title’s 
a sort of halo. Well, that idea got a jolt this trip! 
Got everything now?” glowering around. 
“Where’re the umbrellas?” 

“I have them,” following him out with a back¬ 
ward glance at the titled family, all slumbering 
audibly. “I knew by their things they were wealthy, 
but I wish I’d known-” 

“Don’t worry! When you tell how we traveled 
to Florence with ‘Count Morello and the Countess’ 
—and what d’you call the flapper? Well you won’t 
miss any tricks when you spill that yarn! ‘Charm¬ 
ing people,’ ” mimicking her company voice. “And 
what about an invite to their villa? Might as well 
cook up a good one while you’re at it. Now you sit 
down here and watch these bags,” piling them on 
the first bench. “I’ll take this Johnnie and gun 
up our trunks!” 



An Evening in a Vienna Cafe Instigates 
an Air Trip to Budapest 

The dreamy after-dinner hour in a Viennese 
cafe! 

The sidewalk tables, festive awnings, and wicker 
chairs. Coffee, cordials, tail-glassed ices, and 
passing trays of pastry. The drone of foreign 
voices and the throbbing waltz from the orchestra 
within. 

Entranced by the exotic charm of it all, Helen 
silently sipped her coffee, while Warren and Mr. 
Goldschmidt, a book collector, talked “first edi¬ 
tions.” 

They had dined at the Imperial. A distinctive 
dinner of Austrian specialties and light Hungarian 
wine. 

Afterwards, a stroll along the tree-shadowed 
Opera Ring to this famous cafe, with its crowded 
outdoor tables. 

Apparently, it was Mr. Goldschmidt’s usual 
after-dinner rendezvous, for now a waiter called 
him in to the telephone. 

“Dear, don’t you love this?” glowed Helen, when 
they were alone. “You read so much about the 
Vienna cafes.” 

“That was a great dinner,” Warren lit a fresh 
cigar. “What’d he call that sweet omelette? Salz - 
206 


HELEN AND WARREN 


207 


burger nockeral, wasn’t it? He tipped us off to 
some darn good dishes. Knows Vienna, all right. 
Used to live here.” 

“He’s lived all over Europe, hasn’t he? Speaks 
how many languages? Oh, dear, that poor old 
woman! Yes, do give her something.” 

From a bulging wallet he extricated two five- 
thousand kronen notes, as the flower-woman gave 
Helen a bunch of violets. 

“What’re you doing tomorrow evening?” Mr. 
Goldschmidt returned from the telephone. “A 
friend just gave me his box at the Johann Strauss 
—a new light opera.” 

“Fine! Then you dine with us at the Bristol.” 

“We’d better make it supper afterwards. All 
the operas start here at six-thirty.” 

Vienna! A Viennese opera! A box at the 
Johann Strauss Theater! Helen fairly purred. 

“How far is Prague from here?” demanded 
Warren abruptly. “Thought we’d run up there for 
the week-end.” 

“Why not Budapest?” Mr. Goldschmidt ground 
his cigarette in the ash-tray. “That’s the place you 
want to see.” 

“Too far. I looked it up. Eight hours.” 

“That’s by rail. Why not fly? Only two hours 
by plane.” 

“Fly?” Helen leaned forward breathless. 

“Would you be afraid, Mrs. Curtis?” with the 
slight condescension of the book-worm bachelor 
toward all femininity. 


208 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“No, I’d love to! Dear, can’t we?” 

“Don’t know about that. Got to close some 
important deals over here ’fore I take any chances.” 

“It’s quite safe now. Three air lines here— 
Austrian, German, and French. They all run a 
daily service. Safer than your New York traffic.” 

“That’s not saying much,” grinned Warren. 

“Oh, dear, not after all that dinner!” restrained 
Helen, as the pastry woman paused at their table 
with her heaping tray. 

“Long time since dinner,” belligerently, choos¬ 
ing a nut-encrusted crescent. “Don’t get a chance 
at Vienna pastry every day. Whole lot better’n 
French.” 

“No, no, none for me. Dear, if it’s only two 
hours—we CAN’T go back without seeing Buda¬ 
pest! We may never be here again. Oh, we will 
go, won’t we?” 

“Not so fast! I’ll make no promises till I look 
into it.” Then, dismissingly, “What about a Jen¬ 
sen’s Plutarch? Any chance of digging up a copy 
here?” 

“I’m afraid not. A fine copy in a nice old bind¬ 
ing sold at Lugano last year for seven thousand 
Swiss francs. There was one in Munich-” 

As they rambled on about books, Helen again 
turned to her enthralled contemplation of the cafe 
and its patrons. 

That man over there—what was he writing? A 
music score? The accommodating waiter had 
brought pen and ink. At another table, a studious- 



HELEN AND WARREN 


209 


looking youth, sipping coffee and cognac, was cor¬ 
recting a bulky manuscript. 

Many were reading. A rack just inside held 
the Continental newspapers and highly-colored 
comic weeklies clamped on long rods. 

The Viennese came here not only for their coffee, 
but to spend the evening—to read, write letters, 
even to play chess. 

Why was there nothing like this at home? Rest¬ 
ful, leisurely, club-like cafes with good music, 
where one could linger all evening without being 
hurried on by a rapacious, table-wiping waiter. 

“Oh, isn’t he wonderful?” Helen made eager 
overtures to a haughty Russian greyhound, who 
followed his master inside. 

“That’s Count-,” Mr. Goldschmidt had 

bowed to him. “His family was one of the richest 
in Vienna before the war. Now he works in a 
weschelstube.” 

“By George, I remember him! Changed some 
money for me yesterday—that office below the 
Bristol. Nice fellow. Thought he was an English¬ 
man.” 

“He went to Cambridge. We were in Trinity 
together. That’s his cousin—with that girl in 
black. He’s in one of the air-line offices. The 
hydroplane.” 

“The hydroplane? That flies over the water, 
doesn’t it?” thrilled Helen. 

“Yes, if you go to Budapest—you can fly over 
the Danube all the way.” 



210 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Oh, that would be ideal! Must we engage 
passage in advance?” 

“Yes, they’re well booked up. Most of them 
small four-passenger planes.” 

“Oh, I’m wild to go! Dear, we will. SAY we 
will!” 

“I’ll say nothing of the kind,” shrugging her 
pleading hand from his arm. “And I’ve got it in 
for Goldschmidt for getting you all lit up.” 

“You Americans are ’way behind on fly¬ 
ing,” he laughed. “Everybody flies over here. 
You’ve no passenger planes in the States, have 
you?” 

“Not yet. We can kill people fast enough by 
running over ’em.” 

“Very few accidents here—these pilots are 
experts. You really ought to see Budapest. Good 
hotel there, too—the ‘Hungaria’. The best food in 
Europe.” 

“Now you KNOW you’ll go!” urged Helen, at 
this appeal to his gastronomic proclivities. “And 
only two hours! We’ll never have a better chance 
for our first flight.” 

“Nothing doing,” grimly. “You can’t vamp me 
on that. Been traveling pretty fast. I want to 
rest up this week-end. No new stunts.” 

Then drawing out Helen’s wrist-watch, a tiny 
substitute for his own, temporarily out of com¬ 
mission, 

“After eleven! We’d better trot along. Which 
of these Johnnies served us?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


211 


The very moderate bill was paid with a sheaf of 
notes, enough, in pre-war value, to have bought 
the whole cafe. 

A gut nacht to the bowing waiter, and they 
strolled down the moonlit Ring. 

The fragrant night air, the prowling cabs, the 
shadowy side streets leading off to the dark un¬ 
known. The foreign spell of it all was strong 
upon Helen. 

At the Bristol Mr. Goldschmidt left them, prom¬ 
ising to come by tomorrow at six. They would have 
a cup of chocolate before the opera and supper 
afterwards. 

Inside, while Warren paused at the desk for 
their key, hastily Helen scanned the rack of sight¬ 
seeing and travel leaflets. 

Yes, there was one of an air line! “Wien-Buda- 
pest.” 

“What’ve you got there?” demanded Warren, as 
they entered the lift. 

“An aeroplane circular. Tells all about it. This 
one is only an hour and forty minutes in the air! 
Five hundred thousand kronen —how much is 
that?” 

“ ’Bout seven dollars. Cheap enough!” 

Out of the elevator, he strode briskly down the 
hall. 

“Why it’s nothing! And the office is on the 
Karntner Ring—just below here,” running after 
him. “Dear, the first thing in the morning—we’ll 
get the tickets.” 


212 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“How d’you work this blamed thing?” struggling 
with the heavy door. 

“They leave at ten and three,” intent on the 
circular by the dim hall light. “We’ll go Saturday 
morning and come back-” 

“Now I’m not keen on risking my neck just to 
give you a thrill! Here, hold this!” The lock still 
obdurate, he thrust at her his cane. 

“Dear, you put the key in too far—let me try.” 

“These confounded locks—heavy enough for a 
vault. There!” as he flung wide the double doors. 

The moonlight from the long French windows 
flooded the great paneled room. 

“Look, dear, how wonderful in this light! It’s 
like a dream! All Vienna seems dream-like to¬ 
night. The dinner, sitting out in that cafe and—” 

“Corking dinner!” touching the wall-button that 
switched on the chandeliers. “That Salzburger 
nockeral was great. Have that again. He says 
the Sacher’s a good restaurant. We’ll lunch there 
tomorrow. I bank on his tips ’bout food.” 

“Then why not about Budapest? He said we 
shouldn’t miss it. And we’re so near-” 

“Button loose,” ripping off his coat. “Top one.” 

“I’ll fix it in the morning. We can go by aero¬ 
plane and come back by hydroplane—over the 
Danube all the way. Dear, think what a glorious 
experience!” 

“Where’re my slippers? That darn maid puts 
’em in a different place every day. Room’s so 
big—got to walk a mile to find anything.” 




HELEN AND WARREN 


213 


“I’ll look—in just a moment,” unclasping her 
antique garnets. “And if they’ve a daily service— 
it MUST be safe. Here’re your slippers.” 

“How ’bout the plane that fell while we were in 
Paris? Papers full of it.” 

“That wasn’t Vienna to Budapest!” slipping off 
her gown over her head. 

“Might’ve been. Now stop harping on it! How 
d’you wind this dinky thing?” taking her watch 
from his pocket. “Now you get mine fixed to¬ 
morrow!” 

“I’ll put it in my purse now. Wait, I’ll wind 
that. Dear, you always say the things you regret 
are not what you do—but what you DON’T do. 
And now to miss this trip to Budapest! When it’s 
only two hours—and only seven dollars. Why at 
Atlantic City, just to go up for a few miles, they 
charge twenty!” 

“For the love of Lulu, change that record! Once 
you start on a thing you keep it up till the cows 
come home. Drop it, I tell you,” girdling on his 
bathrobe. “I’m not taking any chances in the 
clouds. Not till I know a lot more about it—or 
sprout wings. Seven dollars!” with a snort. “That 
cut rate clinched it with you!” 

Then, as he stalked belligerently across the huge 
room to the bath, 

“Now that’s a bargain you’ll have to pass up. 
We’re not going to break our necks—just ’cause 
we can do it on the cheap!” 


Flurried Preparations for an Air Flight 
From Vienna to Budapest 

From the stone balcony, outside their room, 
Helen looked down on the noonday crowd in the 
Karntner Ring below. 

Leisurely, foreign-groomed men, strolling to or 
from lunch. 

Waiting for Warren, she scanned the tree-shaded 
street for the first glimpse of his broad-shouldered 
American briskness. 

The Viennese lunched early. The outdoor tables 
of the cafes across the way were fast filling up. 

The scent of roses in the sunlit air! From the 
heaping baskets of a flower-woman standing 
patiently before the hotel. 

Another crippled soldier hobbled by. There 
were so many in Vienna. The only saddening note 
in Helen’s joy. 

A perfect morning in the antique shops. Now a 
festive lunch with Warren. Then perhaps a drive 
with him—or more “antique-ing.” 

“Hello, Kitten!” 

He was standing in the window behind her. 

“Why, dear, which way did you come? I didn’t 
see you.” 

“Came in some time ago. Stopped at the office 
to give up our room.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


215 


“Give up the room? Why, we’re not leaving? 
Not today?” 

“Three o’clock,” he grinned. “Here, lamp 
that!” 

“Three? It’s one now!” opening the envelope 
he had tossed on the table. 

Tickets! The usual foreign leaflet tickets. But 
not railroad—for each bore the winged insignia of 
the Hungarian air service. 

“Luftverkehr. Flugkarte. Wien-Budapest.” 

“We’re to fly to Budapest?” she gasped. 

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?” 

“But you said you wouldn’t! You didn’t think it 
safe. You-” 

“Just stringing you! You fall for anything. 
Too near Budapest not to take it in—and might as 
well fly over.” 

“Oh, you dear, you DEAR!” pirouetting around 
him. Then, with realizing dismay, “But three 
o’clock? Why, we can’t get ready!” 

“Why not? Only take the suitcases—leave the 
trunks here. Back Monday.” 

“But I’ll have to pack everything—and decide 
what to take.” 

“Huh, do that in half an hour. I’ll help. Come 
on, got to get lunch first. We’ll eat here—be 
quicker.” 

“Oh, I can’t take time for lunch. You go on 
down,” opening her wardrobe trunk. “Now, only 
the two suitcases?” 

“They allow you fifteen kilos—’bout thirty 



216 


HELEN AND WARREN 


pounds, each. An average suitcase. But you’re 
not to pass up your lunch. Can’t take that trip 
on an empty tum-tum.” 

“Then bring me a sandwich. I’ll eat it, while 
I’m packing.” 

“No, you’ll take time for your lunch! We’ll 
have it up here,” punching the bell for the waiter. 
“Now I’ll help,” peeling off his coat. “What 
d’you want done?” 

“Get the things out of that closet. Oh, the laun¬ 
dry—it hasn’t come!” 

“They’ll keep it. Only four days. Fly back by 
hydroplane. How’s that?” 

“I’m crazy about it! If you’d only given me 
more time-” 

“Tried to get seats for tomorrow, but all booked 
up for the week. Only these two—just canceled. 
Want this stuff on the shelf?” 

“Of course—everything, if we’re giving up the 
room. What’ll I wear? My beige suit? Will it 
be cold? Is the plane all closed?” 

“Don’t know a darn thing about it. That’s all in 
that closet,” he flung an armful of clothes on the 
bed. “Now what?” 

“Get the things from the bathroom. Now, dear, 
DON’T order much,” as he opened the door for 
the waiter. “We won’t have time to eat it.” 

“We’ll take time!” intent on the menu. “Don’t 
know what we’re up against on this air stunt—so 
here’s where we sink a good feed.” 

Packing the trunk, at the other end of the huge 




HELEN AND WARREN 217 

room, Helen could not hear the order, but it was 
plainly a substantial one. 

“What next?” briskly, as the door closed after 
the waiter. 

“Why, look, you left all the shoes in the closet!” 

“You didn’t say anything ’bout shoes.” 

“Did you think we’d leave them? Now the 
things from the bathroom—EVERYthing!” 

“Needn’t be so blamed sarcastic! That’s what 
I get for helping you.” 

“Do you want to take your sweater?” as he came 
out of the bathroom. “Oh, now what’ve you 
done?” at a crash from his overfull hands. 

“Didn’t break,” picking up her jar of cold 
cream. 

“Dear, DO sit down! I can pack faster alone.” 

“Hold on, not takin’ that camera?” 

“Why, I’ll want pictures of the plane—they’ll 
be wonderful to have.” 

“Huh, want evidence when you blow about this 
trip,” he grunted. “But you can’t take everything 
in your thirty pounds. Read that circular!” 

“How can you tell what’s thirty? You said a 
suitcase apiece.” 

“Not the way you’re cramming stuff in. Keep 
’em light! Don’t have to take much for me. Just 
collars and my razor.” 

“That’s what you always say. Then you roar 
out if you don’t have everything. But this heavy 
bathrobe—you’ll have to do without that.” 

“Great guns, you takin’ all these frills?” poking 


218 


HELEN AND WARREN 


into one of the cases. “Where you think you’re 
going—to a house party?” 

“Only one dress for dinner at the hotel. And 
my dressing-gown—that doesn’t weigh a thing. 
Now, dear, sit down and read—you get me all 
rattled. If we could leave everything in the room 
—but I’ve got to pack the trunks, too.” 

“I’m willing to keep the room. Thought you’d 
throw a fit if I paid six hundred thousand a day 
here. How ’bout it? Want me to tell ’em we’ll 
keep it?” 

“No, no,” with her usual economy. “Not if 
we’re to be gone four days. Now lift this one. 
What do you think it weighs?” 

“That’s under thirty. But don’t stuff a lot more 
in it. Here’s our lunch.” 

The continental luxury for room-served meals, 
a rolling-table already laid with cloth and silver, 
was now brought in. 

“Fine! Put it over there—by the window,” 
gestured Warren. 

“You go ahead,” urged Helen. “I want to 
finish this tray.” 

“Now you come eat your soup, while it’s hot,” 
as he ladled it out. 

“Dear, where do we start from?” reluctantly sit¬ 
ting down at the table. 

“From their office—just below here. They 
motor us out to the field.” 

“How big a plane?” breaking a flaky Vienna 
roll. “How many are going?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


219 


“Small plane—holds four. Only one pilot— 
that’s how we got the tickets. Somebody got cold 
feet.” 

“Oh, they DID?” her spoon poised. “You mean 
it really IS dangerous?” 

“If anything happened to that pilot—good- 
NIGHT!” 

As the waiter removed the soup plates and served 
the grilled mushrooms and salad, Helen had a 
disquieting vision of four helpless passengers in 
an aeroplane with a suddenly incapacitated pilot. 
Heart failure or a stroke. 

“Pitch in now. Got time to eat—not to sit and 
moon. Snap out of it!” 

“Dear, the larger planes have two pilots. Why 
couldn’t we go in-” 

“Everything’s booked up. What’re you kickin’ 
about? Thought you weren’t afraid? After all 
that bluff you pulled before Goldschmidt the other 
night?” 

“Pm not afraid. But when you think of only 
one pilot-” 

“Well, we got a good day for it. When you 
reserve ahead—you take a chance on bum weather. 
These mushrooms are great! What’s the matter? 
Don’t like ’em?” 

But Helen was gazing out the French windows 
at the vivid blue, cotton-flaked sky. An ideal day. 
yet with only one pilot- 

“I’ve had all I want,” at his growled protest, 
when she started up. “Oh, I almost forgot the 





220 HELEN AND WARREN 

things in here,” opening a drawer of the great mar¬ 
quetry desk. 

His lunch finally dispatched, Warren stepped out 
on the balcony. 

“The car’s down there now. Better speed up. 
What’ll I tip the maid? Fifty thousand?” ex¬ 
ploring his obese wallet. “Twenty for the porter 
and twenty for boots.” 

It was just a quarter of three when they followed 
their bag-burdened porter down the hall to the 
lift. 

At the desk, while Warren paid the bill, Helen 
wrote three impress-the-folks-at-hotne postcards. 
All with the same sensational, awe-inspiring mes¬ 
sage—“Off to Budapest via aeroplane.” 

As she bought the stamps, two American women 
breezed up for their mail. 

“-and we had to lose half on the tickets,” the 

voice shrilly resentful. “But I told Fred I 
wouldn’t THINK of it with only one pilot! We’re 
going next week in a big plane—they’re much 
safer. They carry two men.” 

“Did you hear that?” whispered Helen. “She 
was the one who canceled-” 

But Warren was now busy with the head porter, 
who, pocketing his twenty thousand kronen, prom¬ 
ised to take care of their trunks, mail, and laundry. 

“A fine day to fly, sir. Your bags? The boy’s 
gone on with them, sir.” 

Out in the sunlit street and down to the air-line 
office, a few doors below. 




HELEN AND WARREN 


221 


By the waiting limousine stood a group of men. 
and the boy with their bags. 

“Oh, am I to be the only woman?” fluttered 
Helen. 

“Your tickets, sir?” requested the attendant. 
“One of your bags is over fifteen kilos, but the 
lady is so light,” with a gallant bow. “We can 
let it go.” 

The two other passengers, both Austrians, in 
front, Warren took the rear seat beside Helen. A 
friendly Gute reise! from the attendant, as he 
slammed the door, and they were whirled off down 
the Karntner Ring. 

“Ten after three,” Warren glanced at his watch. 
“This aviation field can’t be very far out. We’re 
two hours in the air—due at Budapest at six- 
twenty.” 

“I wonder if it’s their first flight, too?” mur¬ 
mured Helen. Then tensely, “Dear, that woman 
at the hotel—did you hear what she said?” 

“Talked loud enough,” elevating his feet on 
their bags. 

“She wouldn’t go in this plane with only one 
pilot. She said-” 

“Now, don’t start on that. Forget it!” clipping 
a cigar. “You were so dam keen-” 

“I am still! Only I—I DO wish it were a larger 
plane.” 

“Well, you can only break your neck once. Got 
to cash in sometime,” feeling for a match. “Doesn’t 




222 


HELEN AND WARREN 


matter much how. I’d as soon tumble down in a 
plane—as check out in bed. Quicker.” 

Then, leaning forward to toss out the match. 

“Pep up, Kitten! No weakening. We’re in for 
it now. You’re always spouting about thrills— 
here’s where you get a humdinger!” 


A Thrilling Flight to Budapest in a 
Small Four-Passenger Plane 

“A limousine on wings! Dear, that’s just what 
it looks like!” glowed Helen, as they came out from 
the Customs shed to the waiting Hungarian plane. 

“Hope these Johnnies don’t overlook any loose 
screws,” shrugged Warren, watching the leather- 
coated pilot inspect the motor. 

Two grimy mechanics were testing every part of 
the plane. Vaguely disquieting was the solemnity 
of this final inspection. 

“A mascot!” Helen picked up a black kitten 
playing in the field. “If we could only take her 
with us!” 

“Huh, here’s where we’re tintyped!” grumped 
Warren, as one of the officials focused a camera. 
“Not very reassuring.” 

“You don’t mean—in case of accident?” ner¬ 
vously. 

“What else d’they want our mugs for? Front 
page, if we’re bumped off. Here, turn around. 
Put down that cat!” 

Their pictures taken, they climbed up a ladder 
into the plane. The two other passengers, an 
Austrian and a Frenchman, courteously conceded 
them the rear seats. 


223 


224 


HELEN AND WARREN 


The suitcases stowed at their feet, the door closed 
and locked, the mail bag strapped outside by the 
pilot—and all was ready for the flight. 

A roar of machinery. A shuddery lurch. They 
were bumping over the ground. 

“Hello, where’s he takin’ us?” as they circled. 
“Wants more room to start.” 

Taxi-ing straight down the field now. Increasing 
speed. 

The hum of the propellers. A rising tremor. 
The jolting ceased. 

They were in the air! 

“We’re off!” grinned Warren. “Too late for 
rain checks. No backing out now!” 

With turmoiled emotions, Helen watched the 
ground recede. 

Soaring over the tree-tops now. Higher, higher 
—still higher. 

“What? Dear, I can’t hear you!” 

“There’s Vienna!” he shouted louder, above the 
deafening din. 

Looking back, she glimpsed the smoke-veiled 
spires and the ribbon-like Danube. 

“Off to Budapest by aeroplane!” 

That pretentious phrase, written on her impress- 
the-home-folks postcards, was now an actuality. 

Flying from Vienna to Budapest! A thrilled 
experience! 

Her pulsing exhilaration now surmounted all 
sense of fear. 

The earth, like a map, lay far below. The fields, 


HELEN AND WARREN 225 

all shades of green and brown, ruled off with 
checker-board precision. 

“Dear, look—that herd of cows! Like cock¬ 
roaches.” 

“What’s that?” yelled Warren. 

She shook her head. The cockroach simile not 
worth a shouted repetition. 

The Frenchman opened a newspaper. Plainly 
not his first flight, his nonchalance was most reas¬ 
suring. 

Over a village now. Toy rows of red-roofed 
houses. A tiny lake, like a bit of looking-glass 
in a museum model map. 

A sharp nudge from Warren. The courteous 
Austrian was asking her permission to smoke. She 
smiled and nodded, as he held up the unlighted 
cigarette. 

Now past the first wonder of the panorama 
below, Helen appraised the appointments of the 
plane. 

Like a well-built limousine. Only the seat straps 
were ominous suggestions. But the red leather 
upholstery was much worn—comforting proof of 
many trips. 

An instrument to register speed and height she 
tried in vain to read. 

Through the window in front loomed the head 
and shoulders of the hooded, ear-capped pilot. 
How motionless he sat! 

No aide, no mechanic. Their lives depended on 
this lone driver! 


226 


HELEN AND WARREN 


A jab from Warren’s elbow. A signal to look 
out his side. 

Another village. A coil of smoke—and flames. 
One of the toy houses on fire! Ant-like figures 
swarmed before it. 

Someone’s home was burning. Yet how trivial 
and unimportant it seemed. 

From this lofty perspective how inconsequential 
all earthly things! 

A plunge! A sideward dive! A sickening 
drop! 

The roar drowned her scream, as she clutched 
Warren’s arm. 

A steadying lurch, and they were again flying 
smoothly. 

“What made it do that?” she shrieked. 

“Air pocket!” he yelled. “Shooting the chutes!” 

“Oh, I don’t like it!” shrinking closer to him. 

“May get a lot of things you don’t like on this 
stunt. So darn keen on flying! Maybe this dose’ll 
-” the rest lost in the din. 

“How much longer? What time is it? Half 
way yet?” 

Looking out, he did not hear. She drew 
the watch from his pocket. Twenty of five. In the 
air only half an hour! Due at Budapest at six. 
Still an hour and a half! 

A plane! They were passing another aircraft. 
Someone waved out at them. 

Eager to wave back, she tugged at Warren to 
open the window. 



HELEN AND WARREN 227 

As it withstood his efforts, the gallant Austrian 
rose. 

“Better sit tight!” cautioned Warren. “Don’t 
upset the boat!” 

But climbing over his seat, he found the catch, 
and lowered the window. 

“Dam risky thing to do!” growled Warren, as 
Helen smiled her thanks. 

Holding her hat, she waved out after the plane, 
now far behind them. 

“Can’t have that open!” bellowed Warren. “Too 
windy!” 

“Just a little while. I love it!” 

Fresh air always a stimulant, this was like wine. 
Far above all dust and smoke. Strangely exhila¬ 
rating—like after snow. 

They were flying very high now. She could see 
the frothy chiffon clouds below them. Now they 
were cutting through a cloud—like a fog quickly 
passed. 

Limousining through the sky! She hugged the 
phrase—ideal for postcards. 

A rainbow! 

Like magic the great luminous ring encircled 
them. Above, below—they were flying through it! 
No, it kept just ahead. 

Pink, mauve, orange—the colors deepened. 

“Great, isn’t it?” boomed Warren. 

She only nodded. She could not shout her rap¬ 
tures. 

Another nlunging dip. But now no thought of 


228 


HELEN AND WARREN 


fear. In this glorious azure world there was 
nothing to fear. 

An exultant sense of power thrilled her. Attuned 
with celestial elements! If only they could fly on 
and on! Perhaps to other worlds. Why not? 

That story of the mad pilot, who each trip flew 
higher in hope of reaching Mars. And his last 
wild flight- 

A terrifying story when she read it. It did not 
seem so now. That urge to fly on! To leave 
behind the earth already so remotely unimportant. 

A flight to Mars! Sailing on rainbowed clouds, 
it did not seem improbable. 

“Too cold!” Warren, reaching over, slammed up 
the window. 

The high moment was past. The intoxicating 
wind had whipped her thoughts to fantastic sum¬ 
mits. Now she smoothed her blown hair and 
prosaically adjusted her hat. 

The rainbow had faded. Only a faint arch of 
mauve still tinted the sky. 

Flying over a river now—a silver ribbon through 
a patch-quilt of green plush fields. 

“Danube!” shouted Warren. 

More villages. Miniature white-dotted church¬ 
yards. Here and there a smoking factory. A 
quarry. A forest—like a patch of moss. But 
mostly the evenly-ruled fields—squares of green 
velvet and brown suede. 

The Frenchman, finally pocketing his paper, 
peered expectantly ahead. 



HELEN AND WARREN 


229 


Helen could see only a dark cloud, hanging low 
over the horizon. 

No, not a cloud—the smoke of a great city! 

Budapest! 

A dream city! Those round domes. An Oriental 
mirage rising from the clouds. 

Budapest! Hungary! The exotic, gypsy land 
of Hungarian Rhapsodies. 

Was that the great castle? That side must be 
Buda. And across the river—Pest, with its 
mosque-like domes. 

Soon the city was beneath them. How strange 
the houses! Each with a dark inner court. 

From their great height it was an abandoned 
city. The streets deserted. 

On they flew. The same strange buildings with 
mysterious inner courts. 

Where was the landing field? They were well 
over the city now. But still they sailed on. Much 
rougher, as now they were flying low. 

“Guess that’s the field!” Warren pointed to some 
great hangars ahead. 

Lower. Still lower. A lurch for each descend¬ 
ing step. Bumping downstairs in the air! 

The field rose up to meet them. 

The Austrian, gripping the strap over his seat, 
motioned them to do the same. 

A breath-taking landing jolt! They were taxi¬ 
ing over the field. 

Gradually slowing up, they stopped almost be¬ 
fore the shed. 


230 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Dazed from the swift descent Helen was helped 
out by the field attendants. 

Still under the spell of the flight she stood apart 
from the bustling activity of the Customs. 

As air-voyagers their bags and passports were 
examined with courtesy and dispatch. 

Another ten minutes and they were in a big 
touring car, bound for Budapest. 

“Great trip!” Warren settled back with a cigar. 

“Dear, the most glorious experience! Chariot¬ 
ing through the clouds! Oh, I can’t tell you what 
I felt up there! As though—we were in touch with 
the infinite.” 

“Yes, no kick coming on that bus ride.” 

“And we’ll fly back! We’ll never travel by train 
again—not when we can go by air,” exultantly. 
“Dear, say we won’t!” 

“I’ll say nothing of the kind! This pulled off all 
right—had everything our way. Fine day, no wind. 
If we’d got it rough, you wouldn’t be so peppy!” 

“Oh, I loved it! I’m still all athrill. Limousin- 
inginthesky! It’s like a dream. Oh, the camera!” 
she dismayed. “We FORGOT to take any 
pictures!” 

“Huh, short on evidence when you blow about 

this trip, eh? ‘When we flew to Budapest-’ ” 

he mimicked. “That’ll be your prize show-off for 
the next year. But Exhibit A—picture of you 
scrambling into plane—no have. Well, you needn’t 
get sore, Kitten, it was a great stunt. May do a 
little blowing myself!” 



The Enchanted City of Budapest on a 
Languorous Moon-Magic Night 

“Won’t have any trouble nailing a room here,” 
predicted Warren, as they entered the great de¬ 
serted rotunda of the Hotel Hungaria. 

“Dear, get one overlooking the Danube!” Helen 
followed him through the gloomy grandeur to the 
office. 

The English-speaking manager, summoned by 
the clerk, greeted them graciously. 

While Warren filled out the inevitable police 
blanks, Helen, with her avid interest in foreign 
hotels, gazed about the old-world splendor. 

The imposing central stairway with statues hold¬ 
ing lighted globes, the rich carved woodwork, the 
lounge with its morocco divans, and the glass- 
domed dining-room beyond. 

And all so hushed and sadly deserted. It seemed 
unreal—this echoing silence. None of the hum and 
activity of a great hotel. 

In the alcoved lounge two men were having a 
drink. Another, a dozing police dog at his feet, 
was writing letters. 

Just those three in all that luxurious expanse! 

Only a few of the many clustered lights were on, 
leaving great shadowy spaces. 

“Not very lively ’round here,” shrugged Warren, 
231 


232 


HELEN AND WARREN 


when they entered the dark polished wood lift. 
“Don’t see how they can keep the place open if—■” 

“I love this old-world grandeur,” with a warning 
nudge that the lift-boy might understand English. 

At the third floor a white-coated porter was wait¬ 
ing with their bags. 

Down the wide, dim hall and into a lofty room 
gloomed with the deepening twilight. 

Only one bulb in the high chandelier responded 
to the switch by the door. But there was a lamp on 
the dressing-table and another by the huge canopied 
bed. 

“No change for this Johnnie,” Warren was ex¬ 
ploring his wallet as the boy drew the damask win¬ 
dow hangings. 

“Then give him Austrian kronens. Yes, a good 
tip. He looks so poor.” 

“Well, they certainly hand you big rooms over 
here,” grinned Warren when they were alone. 
“You could lay out a quarter-mile track in this 
hall bedroom.” 

“Oh, a wonderful view of the river! And a bal¬ 
cony, too. Do come out here!” 

“Jove, this’s great!” following her out on the 
old stone balcony. 

The Danube at dusk! The four bridges, strings 
of beaded lights mirrored in the blue-black water. 
The heights on the other side. Buda! And the 
great deserted Palace—now darkly mysterious. 

And on this side, Pest—the mosque-like domes 
suggesting the Orient. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


233 


“Dear, it’s much more foreign than Vienna. 
There’s a different atmosphere. Like a dream 
city! I felt that when we were flying over it—it’s 
even stronger now. Don’t you feel it?” 

“Feel hungry! These air jaunts pep up your 
appetite. Come on now,” he turned back. “You’ll 
have plenty of time to hang out there. Got to doll 
up?” 

“Yes, but it won’t take me a minute.” 

While Warren washed, she took her gown from 
the suitcase. He should have brought his dinner 
coat. This royal old hotel seemed to call for 
formal dress. But coming by aeroplane for the 
week-end they had left their trunks at Vienna. 

Budapest! Budapest! The magic of the name 
enthralled her. 

Hungary had always seemed so remote. She 
could hardly realize they were here. 

“I’ll go down. Wait for you in the lobby.” 
Warren was at the door. “Now, no dawdling! 
Five minutes—no longer!” 

Her flurried haste deepened her color and the 
excited glow in her eyes. 

A last glance at her joyous radiance and she hur¬ 
ried out down the hall. 

Warren was not in the lounge, nor in the regal 
salon with its few scattered diners. 

Then, waiting in the rotunda, she saw him swing 
in from the street. 

“Hello, Kitten, waitin’ long? Been out explor¬ 
ing. Raft of restaurants here along the river— 


234 HELEN AND WARREN 

nothing but! Want to take a swirl ’round and look 

9 099 

em over: 

“I’d love to, but shouldn’t we dine here tonight? 
—just to help them out. That great dining-room 
—and almost no one in it!” 

“Oh, they’ll fill up—eat late here. We’ll pat¬ 
ronize ’em for breakfast and lunch. Come on! 
Feel like bumming around?” 

“You know I always do,” joyously, following 
him out. 

Budapest—“The Enchanted City!” That guide¬ 
book phrase now seemed less boastful. 

All along the moon-silvered Danube stretched 
the glittering festivity of terraced cafes. 

“Like a carnival!” glowed Helen, as they strolled 
along the promenade. “Oh, that’s an attractive 
place! And an orchestra, too.” 

“Just a cafe. Don’t see any food there, d’you?” 
scanning the tables where only aperitifs, liqueurs, 
pastry, and coffee were being served. “Come on, 
I’ve a hunch we’ll find a humdinger down this 
way.” 

Further on, an alluring garden with a rustic 
bandstand. Japanese lanterns glowed over the 
tables and among the trees. s 

“No, not here,” Warren dragged her on. “See 
that place?” his cane swung ahead at a majestic 
white building, gay with awnings and lights. 
“That’s where we’re headed. I’ve a hunch that’s 
the ‘Dunapalota.’ ” 

Warren’s restaurant hunches were invariably de- 


HELEN AND WARREN 235 

pendable. The lettering “Dunapalota,” was soon 
decipherable on a fluttering flag. 

Behind the green hedge of the long terrace 
gleamed the white-clothed tables. 

“Dear, you’re wonderful to find this!” as they 
turned in from the promenade. 

The head waiter, welcoming Americans, led them 
to the one vacant rail table. 

While Helen raptured over the view, the lights, 
and the atmosphere of Continental gaiety, Warren 
concentrated on the baffling Hungarian dinner-card. 

“Can’t make anything out of this—that’s a cert! 
I can tackle chow bills in most lingoes—but here’s 
where I’m stumped.” 

With the aid of the translating waiter, he ordered 
a vermicelli with poppy-seed soup, paprikahuhn — 
stewed fowl with paprika, a green and red pepper 
salad, a Hungarian sweet omelette, and a bottle 
of Tokay. 

“Dear, this’s ideal! Just look out there.” 

“Not a bad hunch, eh?” as, the order disposed 
of, he gazed out over the Danube to the dark hills 
of Buda, where faint lights outlined the climbing 
streets. 

“And that must be a Gypsy orchestra! Isn’t that 
a folk-song they’re playing?” 

“What’re they cooking at that table?” Warren 
was always interested in any chafing-dish service. 
“Guess you can get some great grub—if you know 
what to order. Wish Gabriel Wells was here to tip 
us off.” 


236 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Dear, didn’t he buy a palace in Budapest after 
the war? What did he ever do with it?” 

“He’s got it yet. Along here somewhere. Want 
some flowers?” 

“Oh, yes, don’t refuse anybody here,” as the 
wistful dark-eyed boy offered a bunch of roses. 
“They’re all kindly and courteous—and so poor.” 

“Nice people. If they’d stop having revolutions 
and get a decent government—they’d put them¬ 
selves back on the map.” 

“Oh, look—the native costume!” A girl was 
strolling along the promenade in the gay bodice and 
full skirt of the Hungarian peasant. “Did you 
notice her necklace—those colored stones? That’s 
the Magyar jewelry. The guide-book says that and 
hand-embroidery are the things to buy here.” 

“Haven’t bought anything for Carrie yet. Might 
get her something.” 

“Why, yes, I got her that tooled card-case in 
Vienna.” 

“Not enough,” he grumped. “You’ll have to 
cough up something else.” 

As presents for his sister were always a bone of 
contention, Helen welcomed the arrival of the pap- 
rikahuhn, served from a great silver platter. 

“The real thing!” was Warren’s verdict. “What’s 
in this? Green peppers, mushrooms—and what’s 
that other flavor?” 

“Some kind of herbs, isn’t it? All their food is 
highly seasoned—they love spices. Here’s where 
our paprika comes from.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 237 

Hurdling continents Helen saw the red-labeled 
can on her pantry shelf. 

“Dear,” abruptly, “that pantry faucet—the one 
that drips. Did we turn that off tight? You went 
in there last to get some string. Did you notice—” 

“For the love of Lulu!” dropping his fork. 
“How in blazes does your mind work, anyway? 
Why spring that now?” 

“It did sound funny,” laughingly. “I was think¬ 
ing of paprika—the can at home with the Hungar¬ 
ian label. It’s on the shelf over that leaky faucet.” 

“Association of ideas, eh? Some gymnastics! 
Hello, why this hold-up?” 

“For the musicians!” as one approached, pass¬ 
ing a petitioning plate. “Dear, ask him to play the 
‘Blue Danube’.” 

“Can’t make him understand. You’ll only get 
here what I can point at! Jove, I must get some 
change. All I got,” tossing an Austrian note on 
the plate. 

Had the man understood or was it only a coinci¬ 
dence that a little later the orchestra swung into the 
“Blue Danube”? 

That haunting, seductive waltz seemed part of 
the languorous night. 

The amorous velvety darkness! The low-hung 
moon viewing itself in the river. The firefly lights 
along the Palace bank. 

Helen, sipping the Turkish coffee and a golden 
Hungarian cordial, thrilled with the witchery of it 
all. 


238 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“ ‘The Blue Danube’! I used to dream of this 
river and just this atmosphere when I heard that 
waltz. And now—dear, I can hardly believe we’re 
really here!” 

“Very much here,” he grunted, always irritated 
by her ecstasies. 

“But it still seems like a dream. The way we 
came—that wonderful flight above the clouds! And 
now tonight—it isn’t real somehow. There’s some¬ 
thing vague and exotic in the very air. Oh, I can’t 
put it into words! But don’t you feel it? Don’t 


“Feel darn comfortable after that grub,” bru¬ 
tally unresponsive to her emotionalism. “This’s 
one good restaurant. We’re going to hit it hard.” 

“Dear, just think—we’re in Budapest!” her rap¬ 
tures irrepressible. “Budapest! It’s all so differ¬ 
ent from any place we’ve ever been. It’s all so 
foreign, so romantic, so mysterious, so-” 

“Want a thesaurus?” he grinned. 

“Oh, look!” eagerly. “Those lighted boats— 
down there on the river. They must be for rent. 
Let’s take one! A sail along the Danube in the 
moonlight!” 

“Nothing doing! Had enough stunts for one day. 
Gosh, you’re insatiable! Here’s where we beat it 
back to the hotel. I’m ready to turn in,” he yawned. 
“And tomorrow’s Sunday—going to rest up. Sleep 
late. No chasin’ through any art galleries. If you 
feel so darn strenuous—you can do your rubbering 
ALONE!” 




A Midnight Bath in a Budapest Hotel 
Lures Helen to a Rash Adventure 

“I’d better speak ’bout breakfast,” brisked War¬ 
ren, as they turned from the moon-silvered street 
into the Hotel Hungaria. “Got to have it at seven 
sharp.” 

“You can always get coffee and rolls. That’s all 
we want,” protested Helen. 

“Not all I’ll want! No air trip on an empty 
stomach for me. We’ll leave the order tonight. 
What time’ll I have ’em call us? Six-fifteen?” 

“Oh, I’d make it six! I hate to be hurried.” 

The spacious old-world lounge was dismally 
dark, and the office deserted. 

“Where’s the night porter?” Warren pounded on 
the desk. “Only a little after twelve. Somebody 
must be on.” 

Disturbed at his midnight meal, the porter, nap¬ 
kin in hand, emerged from the rear. 

He could not speak English. But Warren, profi¬ 
cient in the sign language, and with the aid of his 
watch, conveyed his order to be called at six. 

“Dear, show him that hydroplane time-table— 
so he’ll be sure. Wait, I’ve one here,” rummag¬ 
ing in her hand-bag. 

With conscious pride she opened the Magyar 
Legiforgalmi schedule and pointed to “7:30”—the 
hour of their flight. 

His careless nod was vaguely disappointing. 

239 


240 


HELEN AND WARREN 


With three daily air services to Vienna, their pros¬ 
pective flight failed to impress this Budapest porter. 

“Guess we’ll have to take our chances on break¬ 
fast,” grumbled Warren. “I don’t know how to 
shimmy ham-and-eggs.” 

The lift-boy off duty, the porter took them up. 

“I’d call this an early town,” Warren jangled 
the tag-weighted key, as they turned down the long, 
dim hall, fringed with shoes awaiting “Boots’ ” 
nightly round. 

In their room, while he switched on the lights, 
Helen opened a window and stepped out on the 
balcony. 

Her farewell glimpse of the witchery of Budapest 
and the Danube at night. 

“Now no time to moon out there! Got these suit¬ 
cases packed?” 

“All but our night things. Oh, I love it here!” 
wistfully, closing the window. “I wish we could 
stay a few more days.” 

“Huh, never satisfied! Always kicking ’cause 
you can’t stay longer,” thrusting his letter of credit 
under his pillow. “No time for a bath in the morn¬ 
ing—I’ll take mine now.” 

“Yes, I will, too,” putting away a cafe menu 
—souvenir of an enchanted evening and an im¬ 
passioned Hungarian orchestra. “But you go 
ahead, dear, I’ll wait.” 

“No you won’t. You’ll splash ’round half the 
night. You go in now—and hustle! I’ll take a 
chance outside,” punching the bell. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


241 


“Oh, it’s too late—the maids are off. You go 
on, dear—I won’t take any.” 

But as Warren slammed into the bathroom some¬ 
one knocked at their door. 

A black-aproned man with an armful of shoes. 
“Boots” had answered the bell. 

What was bath in Hungarian? 

66 Bain — bad trying him in French and German. 

Plainly puzzled at this request from a room with 
a private bath, he motioned her to follow him down 
the hall. 

He should prepare the bath first—then call her. 
But unable to explain this, Helen snatched her 
dressing gown and followed. 

On and on, through the labyrinth hall of many 
turnings, and he unlocked a door marked, No- 
Furdo. 

Like all Continental bathrooms, it was huge. In 
addition to the usual luxuries, it boasted a bed- 
couch, freshly made up with monogrammed linen. 

Was it a Hungarian custom to recline, or take 
a nap, after a relaxing bath? 

The ornate fixtures of tub and shower proved 
most complicated. Meleg —was that cold? She 
drew back at a scalding stream. The Hideg was 
the cold. 

But how was the water kept in? That solved, 
the great tub was soon filled. 

No soap. Never any in European bathrooms. 
Always a plethora of immense bath towels, but 
never a sliver of soap. 


242 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Budapest! Luxuriating in the tub, Helen re-lived 
their glorious three days. It would always seem 
a dream trip. 

The exotic charm of the place and the people! 

Reluctantly forcing herself out, she struggled 
with a blanket-size towel. 

In her dressing-gown, her pumps on her bare 
feet, she gathered up her clothes and scurried 
out down the hall. 

Their room? Panic-stricken, she paused. What 
was the number? 

Forgotten? No, she had never known the num¬ 
ber! Always with Warren, she had never gone 
up alone. 

His shoes! But, leaving so early, would he put 
them out? 

Shoes before many doors. European shoes. 
Even in the dim light—most unlike Warren’s 
American oxfords. 

Before some doors—two pair. One, short- 
vamped, high-heeled. 

Ring for the porter! Must be bells in the hall— 
but where? 

A long bell-rope! But that red light over it— 
and the ominous-looking notice in Hungarian 
hieroglyphics. 

Fire! She dared not ring that. 

Warren would be furious. His scathing remarks 
about her dawdling! 

The lift! Two turns to the right as they got out 
—she remembered that. 


HELEN AND WARREN 243 

Wandering on, she found the lift, made the two 
turns to the right. 

Which door? Six on that side—without shoes. 
Safe to try them all. Their door would be open 
—the others locked or bolted. 

Summoning her courage cautiously she tried the 
first. Locked! 

The next—also locked. 

This eliminating process brought her to the 
fifth—NOT locked! 

The number “142” seemed familiar. Softly she 
pushed open the door. 

All dark! In bed, he had turned out the lights. 

“Warren!” in a poignant whisper. 

Yes, their room! The moonlight on the bed at 
the far end. Warren asleep. 

With relaxing relief, she dropped her clothes 
on a chair and bolted the door. 

Never, never again would she fail to note the 
number of their hotel room. 

Her night dress in the bathroom, she would not 
need the light. 

Noiselessly she tiptoed across the room—to a 
blank wall! Their bath? The door—where was it? 

A dazed moment as from the darkness loomed a 
bowl-and-pitcher washstand! 

Not their room? That man in bed- 

For a tumultuous second she stood paralyzed. 

Then, stumbling over a chair, she snatched her 
clothes and dashed out. 

A shout! A foreign voice boomed after her. 



244 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Frantically she flew on, down the hall. Stairs 
ahead! Not the great central stairway, but steep, 
narrow steps. 

A terrified backward glance as she raced down 
them—to a locked door. 

Trapped! Would he follow her? What did he 
think? 

But only silence now. A baffling, ominous 
silence. 

Another palpitating five minutes before she 
dared venture up the steps. 

The office! She would have to go down and ex¬ 
plain her predicament to the night porter. 

He could not speak English, but at least he would 
know their room number. 

Drawing closer her dressing-gown, her clothes 
still bundled in her arms, she scudded on through 
the zigzag hall, seeking the central stairway. 

Steps! That man—was he following her? 

Brisk, FAMILIAR steps! 

WARREN! 

Then she saw him, striding down the hall, his 
ulster over his pajamas. 

“What the Sam Hill—Where in blazes you 
been?” 

“Sh—sh!” darting towards him. “He ran out 
after me! He may still-” 

“WHAT? He—who? What’re you talkin’ 

about?” 

“Oh, not so loud! I got into the wrong room! 
Which way is ours? Hurry!” 



HELEN AND WARREN 245 

Just ahead, an open door—the light streaming 
out. 

“What in thunder?” stalking after her as she 
flew in. “What’s the idea?” 

“I got lost—these endless halls! I forgot our 
number. I-” 

“What’d you go out for?” slamming the door. 
“What’s all that?” glaring at the roll she still 
clutched. 

“My clothes! I went to the bath—and these 
halls—miles of them! I—I couldn’t find the 
room.” 

“The devil you couldn’t! I was ready to raise 
the house. Thought you’d tumbled over that bal¬ 
cony—you’re always hangin’ out there.” 

“Oh, that man!” incoherently. “What WILL 
he think?” 

“What man? Just what DID you do? Talk 
straight!” 

“Another room—the bed, dresser—everything 
the same. I thought it was you in bed—till I came 
up against a blank wall there,” pointing to their 
bathroom. “I—I got out somehow—but he woke 
and shouted after me.” 

“Huh, lucky he took it out in shoutin’. Won¬ 
der he didn’t bean you with a chair!” 

“Oh, what HAVE I done?” agitatedly, shaking 
out her clothes. “Where’s my-” 

“Didn’t have brains enough to ring for the 
porter?” he snorted. 

“I looked for a bell-Oh, I-” still shak- 






246 


HELEN AND WARREN 


ing out her clothes, she held up a solitary chiffon 
stocking. “How AWFUL—a stocking and my pink 
silk slip! I left them—in that man’s room!” 

“You did, eh?” he exploded. “That all? What 
else did you do?” 

“I know the number—‘142’. Oh, you MUST 
get them! Can’t you-” 

“Butt into a man’s room this time of night and 
ask for my wife’s stocking? I DON’T think!” 

“No, not tonight—in the morning.” 

“Roust him out at six o’clock? Nothing doing! 
But I’d like to see that bird’s face when he finds 
your frills in his room. Any guess will be wrong! 
No Hungarian mind could follow your fool stunts.” 

“But I MUST have my slip—the only one I 
brought. You made me leave everything in Vienna. 
And you know how cold it’ll be in that plane—we 
almost froze flying over!” 

“Well, if you park your clothes in another man’s 
room—it’s not up to me to retrieve ’em! Now get 
to bed there. I want to see you settled. No more 
skylarking tonight! And hereafter, if a room num¬ 
ber’s too great a strain on your pin-headed men¬ 
tality—write it on a tag and hang it ’round your 
neck!” 



Warren’s Penchant for Ham and Eggs 
Imperils Their Departure From 
Budapest 

The early-morning haze veiled the Danube and 
shrouded the spires and domes of the still-slumber¬ 
ing city. 

The lights of streets and bridges blurred wanly in 
the paling dawn. 

From their balcony Helen gazed down the 
misty river. Beyond that fourth bridge, on the 
Buda side, were the anchored hydroplanes. She had 
seen them yesterday when they taxied over for 
their reservations. 

“How does it look out there? Clear?” War¬ 
ren, shrugging into his vest, came to the window. 
“Good day to fly?” 

“Too early to tell,” stepping back into the great, 
dim room. “‘But it’s wonderful in this gray light. 
Oh, I almost wish we couldn’t go this morning! I 
love Budapest—I’d love to stay another day.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t! Loafed here three days— 
that’s enough!” taking his watch and letter of 
credit from under his pillow. “These bags ready?” 

“Yes, you can lock that one.” 

“Hold on, what’re you crammin’ in theie?” 

“Just the guide-book—and those menus and 
postcards.” 

“Now these bags were full weight when we flew 
247 


248 


HELEN AND WARREN 


over. Thirty pounds the limit on all these planes. 
Can’t take back the stuff you bought here—and that 
junk, too!” 

“Then I’ll carry it,” making a hasty package of 
her souvenirs. 

“Well, if you’re going to fool around—I’ll go on 
down and see what I can gun up for breakfast.” 

“No, I’m ready,” strapping the camera. “Oh, the 
maid—I wonder if she’s on?” 

“We’ll leave it for her. She’ll get it,” he threw 
some Hungarian notes on the table. “Mighty decent 
at this hotel—not hangin’ around for tips. Come 
on now, got everything? The porter’ll bring down 
the bags.” 

The elevators not yet running, they walked down 
the wide central stairway. 

In the great dimly lit rotunda, two women were 
washing the marble floor. 

“Day porter’s not on yet,” growled Warren. 
“Can’t make that night man understand a thing. 
Let’s have a look in the dining-room.” 

But the lofty glass-domed restaurant was in its 
6 a. m. dishevelment. Chairs on tables, scrub- 
pails, mops. 

“Where can we get breakfast?” demanded War¬ 
ren of the solitary shirt-sleeved waiter. “Break¬ 
fast! Food! Grub! Eats!” 

In sonorous Hungarian he waved them through 
a hallway to the left. 

“Where’s he shooing us? I thought this led out¬ 
side.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


249 


“Oh, dear, it does!” as they came out on the ter¬ 
race cafe, where a gardener was watering the flower 
boxes. “Here’s where they serve their early break¬ 
fast.” 

“Don’t see much signs of it!” 

“Yes, there’re some tables set up. Oh, don’t you 
love it out here?” 

As they settled at a table that boasted a yellow- 
striped cloth, a waiter, struggling into his coat, 
hurried out. 

“Coffee, rolls, and eggs!” brisked Warren. “And 
hustle it along.” 

An eager nod confirmed coffee and rolls, but at 
“eggs” he looked blank. 

Warren’s hasty oval, sketched on the back of 
an envelope, proved unenlightening. But a few 
more pencil strokes presented an illuminating 
nest. 

“Hold on! If that works so well, we’ll try for 
a little bacon. I’m a bum artist—but this ought to 
suggest a porker.” 

It did. Again the waiter beamed his understand¬ 
ing. 

“Not a bad idea when you can’t chatter their 
lingo. Cinch to order vegetables! Beans, peas 
in pod—asparagus—or would we get celery on 
that? Potatoes—easy. But how could you draw 
’em mashed?” 

“Dear, you shouldn’t have ordered that bacon! 
It’s twenty after six now—and that plane starts at 
half-past seven.” 


250 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Get there in ten minutes—just across the river. 
How’s that for cauliflower? Punk, eh? Might 
hand us an artichoke—or a cabbage!” 

At any other time Helen would have welcomed 
this as a pleasing diversion from his usual before¬ 
breakfast grouch. But now—if they should miss 
that plane? 

“What’s wrong with this picture? Think we 
could get a chicken on that? And how ’bout these 
for lamb chops?” 

“Dear, it’s half-past! Can’t you do something 
to hurry him?” 

“We’ll always nail a lobster if I flash that!” still 
intent on his sketches. “Hereafter, when the sign 
language fails—I’ll say it with pictures!” 

“Oh, you’re missing this wonderful view! Look, 
that haze on the river—and the Palace!” gazing 
across to Buda. “I said all along it was a dream 
city.” 

“Now tune off on that mushy dream stuff! Been 
pulling that slush ever since we got here. Wonder 
if that Johnnie did understand me? Yes, here he 
comes.” 

But he brought only the coffee. A curious 
earthen pot. 

Following him came the pastry woman—the 
inevitable cafe vendor. 

“Great guns, do they eat this for breakfast, too?” 
scowling at the heaping tray she offered for their 
selection. 

“Dear, it’s not all pastry—here’re some rolls. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


251 


They’re sweet—but I’m afraid it’s all we’ll get,” 
forking off two for him and one for herself. 

The pastry woman, collecting direct as was the 
custom, mumbled her thanks when Warren waved 
back the change. 

“Don’t wait for the bacon and eggs,” urged 
Helen. “We won’t have time!” 

“We’ll TAKE time! Now I sink a good break¬ 
fast before I start on that air trip.” 

A hostile interval before the waiter appeared 
with a silver-domed platter. 

“HAM!” exploded Warren, when the cover was 
raised. “I ordered bacon!” 

“How could he tell? You drew a pig—you 
didn’t mark what part. But, look,” holding out 
her wrist watch, “you won’t have time to eat that.” 

“Think I’ll pass up this?” spooning on his plate 
two of the golden-yolked eggs. “If we’re not there 
on the minute—they’ll wait for us.” 

“Why, they have to fly on schedule, don’t they?” 

“Darn good ham. Picture worked all right, at 
that. Where’s that pastry jane? These measly 
little rolls—why didn’t you nail enough of them?” 

“Warren, they MUST fly on time! They can’t 
—Oh, here’s the day clerk!” 

“Good morning,” approaching their table. 
“Are you flying to Vienna on that seven-thirty 
plane, sir? You have very little time.” 

“Oh, they’ll give us some leeway,” shrugged 
Warren. “Only take four passengers. Make out 
my bill and order a taxi.” 


252 


HELEN AND WARREN 


‘That’s the trouble, sir. Very hard to get a cab 
this early.” 

“The devil it is! Why, I told you yesterday 
we were going on this plane.” 

“Yes, sir, but you left no order for a cab. I’ll 
try to get one.” 

“Oh, I know we’ll miss it!” despaired Helen as 
he hurried off. 

“We’ll NOT miss it! Sit down there and finish 
your breakfast. Can’t take this trip on an empty 
stomach.” 

But with only a gulp at her coffee, Helen dashed 
back into the office. The clerk, out on the steps, 
was whistling for a cab. 

Tensely she gazed down the deserted street until 
a taxi turned the corner. 

Then, darting back for Warren, she met him 
coming through the corridor. 

“Got that bill ready?” digging into his wallet. 
“Our bags down?” 

At last in the taxi, the driver instructed by the 
porter, and they were speeding along the river. 

“Plenty of time,” Warren glanced at his watch. 
“Hello, a market along here.” 

Carts of fruits and vegetables—green and crim¬ 
son. Baskets of flowers. Shawl-headed women 
arranging their wares in barrows and stalls. 

On past the picturesque old-world market, and 
they were crossing the bridge. 

“There’re the hydroplanes!” eagered Helen, 
peering down the river. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


253 


Like huge sea-gulls the winged crafts rested on 
the water. Three, covered with canvas hoods, were 
anchored in the dock. One was ready to fly! 

“Look, two men getting in—and the pilot!” 
clutching his arm. 

“Here, don’t throw a fit! We’ll make it. Take 
’em half an hour to get started.” 

“Oh, these carts!” frantically. “Can’t he drive 
around them?” 

Off the bridge at last, they plunged ahead of the 
lumbering market carts. 

“They’re taking up the plank!” anguished Helen. 

“By George, that’s right!” 

“Oh, I KNEW we’d miss it! I told you-” 

“Now none of that!” he snarled, glaring at the 
seaplane now skimming over the water. “Thought 
you were so damned keen on staying another day?” 

“I was—if it were too foggy to fly. But not this 
way—and lose our passage.” 

“Huh, won’t break us! Only fourteen dollars.” 

A gesturing commotion as the crowd on the plat¬ 
form now sighted the taxi with the belated passen¬ 
gers. 

Running to the river’s edge, one of them blew an 
ear-splitting whistle. 

“Trying to call them back!” thrilled Helen. “Oh, 
can he make them hear?” 

“Doubt it!” Warren sprang out. 

Another shrieking blast as the men rushed their 
bags to the Customs shed. 

Had the pilot heard? The speed of the plane was 
slackening. 



254 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“It’s turning! Coming back! He caught them 
just in time.” 

“Mighty decent of him. Guess that’s worth a 
hundred thousand,” counting some bills from his 
wallet. 

“Give him fifty thousand—and the pilot fifty,” 
economized Helen. 

“No, we don’t. They get a hundred each. Not 
much over a dollar. Want to get rid of this Hun¬ 
garian kale, anyway.” 

None of the men could speak English but War¬ 
ren’s generous tip compensated for their tardiness. 

Their tickets and passports examined, the suit¬ 
cases weighed, and they were hurried down the 
steps just as the hydroplane churned up to the plat¬ 
form. 

The pilot looked disgruntled, but the two passen¬ 
gers nodded good-naturedly. 

“Well, that was darned lucky!” grinned Warren, 
as their bags were stowed in the plane. “Caught 
’em just in time. Couldn’t whistle ’em down once 
they were in the air.” 

“But it was SO unnecessary!” flared Helen. 
“We might just as well have been on time! If you 
hadn’t ordered that bacon-” 

“Never mind ’bout that bacon!” hustling her up 
the plank. “Caught the plane, didn’t we? What 
more d’you want? I said we’d make it—and we 
DID! What’re you kickin’ for—just to keep in 
trainin’? Now settle back there—you got to stay 
put on these sky-pins!” 



Looping-the-Loop Over the Danube in a 
Hazardous Hydroplane Flight 

Their second air trip! 

Without a tremor of apprehension, Helen settled 
back for their return flight. 

In thrilled anticipation of another two hours 
above the clouds, she watched the plane skim 
along the Danube, gathering speed for the ascent. 

Saturday they had aeroplaned over from Vienna. 
Three enchanted days in Budapest and now— 
hydroplaning back! 

Like a great sea gull the winged craft swept 
along the river towards the bridges—gray spectral 
arches in this early-morning mist. 

Were they to fly over them? Or not take to the 
air until well beyond? 

The pilot was now signaling over his shoulder. 
The cue for them to lean forward—to make easier 
the ascent. That was why Warren and the stout 
Hungarian had been seated in front. 

A jolt, a lurch! A deafening roar of the engine 
as they rose from the water. 

Now in the air, the first bridge loomed menac¬ 
ingly ahead. 

They were flying low—the bridge perilously 
near! Could they clear it? 

Helen caught her breath and gripped the back of 
Warren’s seat. A swift glance at the man beside 
255 


256 


HELEN AND WARREN 


her—a thin, nervous Italian. His crouching pos¬ 
ture and evident alarm grotesqued the dignity of his 
pince-nez and pointed beard. 

But, just as the crash seemed inevitable, the plane 
shot upward—clearing the bridge. 

The needed elevation now attained, they all four 
sank back into their seats, the Italian mopping his 
forehead with a lavender handkerchief. 

“Dear, wasn’t that awfully close?” she shouted 
into Warren’s ear. 

“Looked so,” he shrugged. “But guess this 
Johnnie knows his job.” 

On up the river, beyond the market, past the 
great hotels along the Quai. Now they were soar¬ 
ing over the bridge that leads to the Royal Palace 
on the Buda side. How bleak and deserted that 
great walled castle in this early-morning haze! 

Over the Margitsziget, that Arcadian island in 
the Danube between Buda and Pest—then on past 
the last bridge. 

Their farewell glimpse of Budapest! It would 
soon only be a memory. Wistfully Helen looked 
back at the mist-veiled domes. 

At every lurch, the man beside her clutched the 
arms of his seat. Plainly his first air trip! 

With conscious superiority Helen saw him ap¬ 
praise her suitcase—labeled evidence of their pre¬ 
vious flight. 

Those extra labels she had asked for? A flurried 
search in her handbag. Yes, she had them—for 
the trunks left in Vienna. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


257 


The clouds that had shrouded the sunrise were 
now dispersing—leaving a flushed, radiant sky. 

And the river below, a zigzag blue ribbon through 
patches of green and brown. 

As a hydroplane could land only on water, for 
safety they must keep over the Danube all the way 
to Vienna. An Elysian voyage! 

The pilot’s aide gave an added sense of security. 
Their flight over had been with a lone pilot. 

This was also a four-passenger plane, but the 
appointments more luxurious. Gray cloth uphol¬ 
stery and gray silk curtains, edged with blue beads. 
The beads—a frivolous touch in this chariot of the 
sky. 

In the glass-enclosed cabin they were comfort¬ 
ably protected from the furious wind that knifed 
the goggled, ear-capped pilot and his aide. 

The Hungarian was now studying a map, locat¬ 
ing the villages. 

From so great a height they all looked the same. 
A cluster of red-roofed, toy houses with a steepled 
church and a white-dotted graveyard. 

Those cemeteries rarely visible from train or 
boat—yet from a plane, the conspicuous note of 
every town. 

Seven villages could now be seen along the val¬ 
ley. And in each—that ominous, white-dotted 
plot. 

Those crawling atoms—how futile seemed their 
lives! A few troubled years that led only to an¬ 
other dot in their churchyard. 


258 


HELEN AND WARREN 


The futility of all life! The triviality of all 
worries. How fleeting—how inconsequential! 

These flights should give one a broader vision. 
As always, under any mental stimulus, Helen was 
spurred to emotional resolutions. 

She would not worry over little things. All that 
really mattered was character. She would strive 
to be less petty, less narrow, more generous. 

What was that she had read the other day? 

“What we gave, we have. What we spent, we 
had. What we saved, we never had.” 

That antique brooch bought in Budapest. She 
had so much—these trips abroad with Warren. 
She would give that to her Cousin Martha, who had 
so little. 

A sudden mist obliterated sky and earth. They 
had plunged into a cloud! 

Were they going slower? Or was the dense vapor 
muffling the engine’s roar? 

How could the pilot steer in this blinding fog? 
Nothing to guide him! 

With trembling hands the Italian opened a bag 
at his feet. A glimpse of tortoise-shell fittings, as 
he took out a sustaining flask. 

As suddenly as they had plunged into the clouds, 
they now emerged above them. Again the blue sky! 
Again the sunlight sparkled on the varnished wings, 
with their cryptic letters—“H—M A C A”. 

But now they were in another world—above the 
clouds! 

A strange white world, like a vision of the polar 


HELEN AND WARREN 259 

region. The vast cloud-ocean below might be a 
snow-covered landscape. 

“Look down there!” Warren shouted back. 
“Great sight!” 

Then she saw it—that weird phenomena! 

Below, on the white cloud-ocean, a dark phan¬ 
tom plane! Their shadow! 

An uncanny apparition chasing after them. 
Skipping along the foamy clouds. 

Then, to enhance the magic of this etheric world, 
their pursuing shadow was encircled by a rainbow. 
A complete iris, lying flat below them on the white- 
frothed sea! A glorious-hued ring around their 
impish specter. 

The rainbow, their shadow, and this isolated, 
snow-carpeted world! 

“Hand me the camera!” boomed Warren. “Want 
to try for that shadow.” 

Lowering the window beside him, he flung off his 
hat and leaned far out. 

“Oh, not any more!” shrilled Helen, when he 
prepared for the third exposure. “I want some of 
the plane—with me standing by it!” 

“Going to nail that shadow! Never get another 
chance at a sight like that.” 

But the next second—again in the enveloping 
vapor! 

Were they sinking through the cloud-sea—or 
was it lashing up to submerge them? 

Soon they could see the earth. How strange after 
that celestial world! 


260 


HELEN AND WARREN 


On and on they flew, following the river far be¬ 
low. At times across great wooded bends and pen¬ 
insulas cutting off miles of the Danube’s winding 
course. 

The Hungarian was now calling attention to a 
miniature boat in the river. 

“Boat for Vienna,” explained Warren, handing 
back the camera. “Left Budapest last night— 
doesn’t get in till six. We’ll Tight there in forty 
minutes.” 

The midget boat seemed barely to move in the 
now gray-green stream. 

That sun-glinted thread along the bank—a rail¬ 
way! A creeping toy train. 

Only forty minutes now! Helen wished it were 
hours. Charioting through the sky! Life offered 
nothing more exhilarating. 

But her enthusiasm was not shared by the Italian 
beside her. Anxious glances at his watch betrayed 
his eagerness to land. Was it fear or dizziness? 

Great heights always made her dizzy—but not 
these air trips. Perhaps because they were detached 
from the earth. Not peering down from a building. 

“See that smoke?” Warren sighted a smudge on 
the horizon. “Must be Vienna.” 

And then, without warning, without even a pre¬ 
paratory jolt—came a swift, terrifying dive. 
Downward, straight down! A sickening drop! 

Helen’s scream was lost in the roar. 

Then a steadying lurch! Pier held breath re¬ 
laxed, as they again shot upward. 


HELEN AND WARREN 261 

What did it mean? Something wrong with the 
engine? 

Now, as they sped smoothly along, the wind- 
reddened pilot turned to grin back at them—wav¬ 
ing at something ahead. 

Another plane flying by! Suddenly it dropped. 
A sheer dip—then up again! 

So, the aerial gymnastics had been merely a pass¬ 
ing greeting! The planes signaling each other. 
A loop-the-loop salutation! 

The nerve-shattered Italian now fairly spluttered. 
Leaning forward, he shouted his indignation to the 
Hungarian in front. 

Nearing Vienna! Cathedral spires now pierced 
the smoke-screened horizon. 

They were flying lower. The landscape heaving 
upward! 

Was that the dock ahead? Much swifter this 
descent than their circling landing at Budapest. 
Was it easier to alight on the water? 

Slanting straight down to the river now. Would 
they plunge into it? 

Nearer—nearer. Hardly a splash when they 
struck the water! Now they were skimming along 
with slackening speed. 

At the dock, three men stood ready to help them 
land. 

The door unlocked, Warren scrambled out and 
swung Llelen to the platform. 

The irate Italian started to berate the pilot, who 
only laughed and shrugged. 


262 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Bawlin’ him out for that loop-the-loop stunt,” 
grinned Warren. 

“Dear, he was so nervous all the way—I felt 
sorry for him,” shaking out her traveling coat. “In 
that awful plunge, he gripped my arm—it’s still 
sore.” 

“Well, you’re a darn good sport, Kitten. When 
I looked back after that dive—you hadn’t turned 
a hair. That poor shrimp was white as his collar.” 

“Oh, I loved it! I wasn’t a bit afraid,” living 
up to his praise, since he had not heard her scream. 

“Can’t say I was keen ’bout it. Thought we 
were checkin’ out! Next time we go on a sky- 
flivver, I’ll tip off the chauff to cut the wig-wag¬ 
ging. No dipping-the-dips when he sights another 
bus. He can say ‘Howdy’ with a little less shock 
to my innards!” 

Then as he strode ahead up the rough board steps 
to the passport office: 

“Here’s where we hustle, got to get our mugs 
passed! Guess that’s the car to take us in. Where 
we goin’ for lunch? Bristol? Imperial? What’s 
that? Too early? Not for me! After that jolt¬ 
ing down, my Little Mary wants food—and wants 
it darn quick! Come on now, leg it lively!” 


Helen’s Avidity for Old-World Bargains 
Leads to an Expensive Adventure 

Snuff-boxes, age-yellowed laces, old-world jew¬ 
elry, silver, china—the ever-alluring clutter of an 
Antiquitaten window. 

“Dear, just a second!” pleaded Helen. “That 
old garnet brooch—it’s exactly like my necklace.” 

Warren, who had strode on ahead, turned back 
for a grudging glance. 

“They won’t sell it separate,” for the coveted 
brooch reposed in a velvet case with earrings, 
chain, and bracelet. 

“They might; I’ll ask—it won’t take a minute.” 

Unmindful of his scowling impatience, she 
darted in to the dim, treasure-jumbled shop. 

The shopman, who could speak a little English, 
protested he could not sell the brooch alone. But 
the set was very reasonable—only three million 
kronen. 

About forty-five dollars. And she had a neck¬ 
lace—a much finer one. 

Murmuring her regret, Helen turned to the door. 
A man, whom she had thought a customer, followed 
her out. 

“Pardon,” in excellent English. “If you are in¬ 
terested in old jewelry, my wife has some family 
263 


264 HELEN AND WARREN 

pieces we are forced to sell,” taking a card from 
his pocket. 

“I’m sorry, but we’re leaving Vienna tonight,” 
explained Helen. 

Suavely persistent, he urged that it was but a 
little way to his flat. They could go now. There 
were many fine heirlooms—jewelry, laces, silver. 

Helen hesitated, her feminine bargain instinct 
avidly alert. To buy at first hand—a rare oppor¬ 
tunity! What old-world treasures might she not 
discover? 

“Nothing doing!” was Warren’s squelching ver¬ 
dict, when she consulted him. “We’ll not spend our 
last day chasin’ junk. You got enough this trip.” 

“But you wanted something else for Carrie,” 
inspirationally. “We might find something won¬ 
derful. He says they’ve a lot of lace—and she’s 
crazy about old lace.” 

“How far?” always susceptible to the bait of 
something for his sister. 

“Oh, it can’t be far,” eagerly. “He said-” 

“Only ten minutes in a cab, sir.” The man, hov¬ 
ering near, now approached. 

Athrill at the prospect of an adventurous treas¬ 
ure-hunt, Helen sprang into the taxi he had hailed. 
Warren followed, grumblingly reluctant. 

The address given, their self-appointed guide 
took the drop seat and plunged into a laudatory 
account of his wife’s heirlooms. 

“-and now all must be sacrificed before we 

can return to Paris,” 




HELEN AND WARREN 


265 


“Oh, you’re not Viennese?” ventured Helen. 

“No, no, Madame, my wife was born in Paris— 
and I, in Alsace.” 

This information contributed to Helen’s enjoy¬ 
ment of prospective bargains. The Viennese were 
so kindly and so poor. She shrank from profiting 
by their need. 

Down the Graben, past St. Stephens, and on 
through a street of ivied walls. 

The ten minutes lengthened to twenty before they 
finally drew up in an inauspicious neighborhood 
of small shops. 

While Warren paid for the cab Helen viewed the 
bakery before which they had stopped. A typical 
Viennese patisserie , the window gorged with ornate 
pastry. 

Did they live above? She had expected a more 
pretentious address. 

“I hope you do not mind the stairs,” he ushered 
them into a dingy hallway. 

“Oh, not at all,” Helen politely assured him. 

The halls were wide but bare and shabby. One 
flight, two, three- 

“Where we goin’?” demanded Warren. “To the 
roof?” 

“Just two more flights, sir,” he encouraged. 

At the skylighted top floor, he opened the first 
door. 

Helen’s hopes, that had slumped with their 
ascent, now soared again. A spacious apartment, 
luxuriously furnished. 



266 


HELEN AND WARREN 


The woman, plainly French, seemed not sur¬ 
prised at their intrusion. 

The place exuded antiques. Every table, chest, 
and cabinet littered with curios. 

“Ah, my grandmother—she loved beautiful 
things! She collected—many years. What a pity 
—we must sell!” 

Her husband, unlocking a cabinet, took out a 
drawer of jewelry. 

Cameos, garnets, amethysts, amber, turquoise— 
all in quaint old settings. 

“Ah, something for you—very fine,” taking a 
cameo necklace from its case. “Twenty cameos 
—all different. Will you see?” offering a magnify¬ 
ing glass. 

“It’s very lovely, but, I’m afraid, too expensive 
for me,” evaded Helen. 

“Expensive? Nothing here expensive. We must 
sell all—quickly! For that? In your money— 
only six hundred dollars. It is nothing!” 

Helen’s polite murmur concealed her amazement 
at the exorbitant price. 

A tortoise-shell bracelet, an aquamarine pen¬ 
dant, and a carbuncle brooch were proportionately 
expensive. Double what the average antique shop 
would ask. 

“You spoke of some laces?” ventured Helen, as 
the jewelry seemed hopeless. 

“You will see the laces before you decide? Ah, 
Monsieur is interested in books?” 

“Not in these plugs,” grunted Warren, scanning a 
bookcase. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


267 


“Perhaps in prints? Ah, I will show you some 
very fine old prints.” 

“You will see my laces?” cajoled the woman. 
“Please! In my room.” 

While Warren viewed the prints Helen was 
ushered into the bedroom. 

The white-and-gold luxury of a French-farce 
boudoir! The silk-draped bed, white fur rugs, 
and a silver-littered dressing-table. Modern ex¬ 
travagances that were not heirlooms. Nothing sug¬ 
gestive of reduced circumstances or the need to sell. 

The laces were in a lacquered chest. An enticing 
assortment. 

“Just an inexpensive collar or handkerchief for 
a present,” suggested Helen. 

But the prices were equally excessive. A small 
point collar, not the finest, thirty-five dollars. A 
handkerchief, thirty. A piece of old blond lace, 
twenty. 

How could they escape? The woman was even 
more persistent than her husband. 

“You do not think this cheap?” she shrilled. 
“That handkerchief for only thirty dollars? You 
Americans have so much. To you—that is 
nothing!” 

“It’s more than I care to pay for a handker¬ 
chief,” resented Helen. 

“Wait, I show you other things,” opening a chest 
of old brocades and velvets. 

Gloatingly Helen took up a bit of crimson velvet, 
worn almost to the nap. 


268 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Ah, yes, the old Venetian! I see you know. 
That you may have very cheap.” 

“Make the price in kronens,” laughed Helen. 
“Not dollars.” 

“Ah, you will have in kronens?” with a disdain¬ 
ful shrug. “Only a million nine hundred thou¬ 
sand.” 

Mentally Helen computed it in dollars. About 
twenty-eight. 

“You not call that cheap?” again the shrill of 
animosity. “How much you give?” 

“It’s not a half yard. I bought a larger piece in 
Florence for ten dollars.” 

“Old Venetian velvet? Impossible! But I will 
make this in your money—twenty-two dollars. 
No? Then you only come to look—you not want 
to buy!” 

“I’m afraid not, at your prices. I’m sorry to 
have troubled you.” 

Flushed and indignant Helen turned back to the 
front room, where the man, with aggressive insist¬ 
ency, was still trying to sell Warren some prints. 

“Ah, monsieur , we must sell at any price! Take 
the three for fifty dollars!” 

“I told you I didn’t want them!” rasped Warren. 
“They’re late restrikes.” 

“You found no laces to suit you?” hastily turn¬ 
ing to Helen, with a telegraphic glance at his wife. 
“You would like to see the jewelry again?” 

“No, thank you. I only wanted some very inex¬ 
pensive things for presents.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


269 


“These make very nice presents,” taking a 
papier-mache snuff box from a cabinet. “No? 
Then, this crystal scent bottle—only fifteen dollars. 
You think that is high? Why, it is nothing— 
it-” 

“Now see here, we’re not goin’ to be bullied into 
buying anything!” exploded Warren. “You 
dragged us up here. I don’t know the other stuff, 
but I know a little ’bout prints—get any of these 
for half the price at a good dealer’s.” 

The woman, with a shrug and sneer, was now 
shrilling something in French. Warren caught the 
reference to “cheap Americans.” 

“Well, we’re not failin’ for your sucker prices! 
Proof impression!” taking up one of the prints. “A 
rotten reproduction—and you know it!” 

“Sh—sh, dear,” restrained Helen. “Come, let’s 
g° ” 

A crash! A shivery crash! 

Jerking his hat from the bric-a-brac cluttered 
table, Warren had swept a Bohemian glass decanter 
to the floor. 

A panicky moment! A wave of crimson scorched 
Helen’s face. 

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu /” from the woman. 

“All right, what’s the damage?” Grimly, War¬ 
ren drew out his wallet. “How much?” 

The excited couple consulted in voluble French. 

“You see what it was—a very fine-” 

“Now never mind the pedigree—how much?” 

“It is most unfortunate. The price was forty 




270 HELEN AND WARREN 

dollars—but an accident—you need pay only 
thirty.” 

“That’s outrageous,” whispered Helen. “It 
wasn’t worth ten!” 

“Thirty dollars, sir. That’s just what it cost 
me.” 

“Cost you, eh? Slipped up that time! How 
’bout your grandmother’s heirlooms? I spotted 
this for dealers’ stuff. A plant for gullible Ameri¬ 
cans. Well, you didn’t pull it off this time. Now 
you put those pieces in your pocket and come with 
me. I’ll get a valuation from an honest Viennese 
dealer.” 

At this another excited, gestured conference. 

“My wife says since it’s an accident—we’ll take 
twenty.” 

“I’ll give you ten! You’ll take that—or go 
with me and have it valued.” 

After another parley, the woman flounced angrily 
into the next room, leaving her husband to make the 
surly acceptance. 

“There you are, good American dollars!” throw¬ 
ing the bills on the table. “Next time you drag 
an American up here—be sure he’s the sucker 
type.” 

Another moment and they were out in the hall— 
the door slammed after them. 

Down the steps—the four long flights. In 
grim, forbidding silence Warren stumped on 
ahead. 

It was not until he had hailed a cab, and they 


HELEN AND WARREN 


271 


were whirling back to the Bristol, that he heeded 
Helen’s fluttered indignation. 

“Heirlooms—their grandmother!” he snorted. 
“Hold-up artists—pretty slick team. Now never 
mind the ten spot! We got out of there cheap. 
Hereafter you buy your junk in reliable shops. 
Don’t try to pull off bargains by digging around 
these private joints. They’re all plants fixed up to 
trim suckers. But that bird got a couple of ten- 
minute eggs—when he picked US!” 


The “Russian Comedians” Feature Flap- 
jacks Plus Caviar and Sour Cream 

“How ’bout that Russian joint?” brisked War¬ 
ren as they swung along the Rue Royale in the 
roseate before-dinner hour. 

“Oh, you have to reserve a table days ahead,” 
discouraged Helen. “And we couldn’t go tonight, 
anyway.” 

“Why not?” belligerently. 

“We’re not dressed—they wouldn’t let us in.” 

“Huh, I’ll take a chance on that! Get in any 
place in Paris—if you got the coin. Go in your 
pajamas—if you cough up enough.” 

“But, dear, they say it’s crowded every night— 
you have to reserve ahead.” 

“Well, we do mighty little reserving—and we 
usually get what we want. Come on, hop in there!” 
hailing a taxi. 

With reckless speed they were whirled through 
the congested streets. All Paris, in honking cabs, 
was hurrying to dine. 

“Dear, if we can’t get in—let’s go over to the 
Latin Quarter, some little place,” economically. 
“ ‘Henriette’s’—we haven’t been there this trip.” 

“Nothing doing, not on the cheap tonight! Only 
two more days in Paris—going to hit it up! Here 
we are now.” 


272 


HELEN AND WARREN 


273 


Comediens Russes , was the black-and-orange sign 
over a low doorway. 

Closely drawn orange curtains enticingly 
shrouded the mysteries within. 

“Looks like a dive,” grinned Warren. “Hope 
it’s a lively one.” 

In the tiny vestibule, a uniformed attendant 
guarded the inner sanctum. 

“You have reservations, Monsieur?” taking War¬ 
ren’s hat and stick. 

“I have not,” curtly. “But I want a table—and 
a good one.” 

“I knew they wouldn’t let us in,” whispered 
Helen, as the attendant disappeared to consult the 
potentates within. “Did you see the look he gave 
you?” 

“X-raying my wallet! That Comedian’s French. 
Don’t worry, they’ll not let any easy mark Ameri¬ 
cans get away.” 

Here the draperies parted and a sleek head 
waiter appeared. 

“Ah, good evening, Monsieur. You have no 
reservations?” 

“No,” crisply. “If you can’t take care of us, 
we’ll try the next joint.” 

“A moment, Monsieur. I’ll see what we can do.” 

Drawing back the heavy curtains, he stood aside 
for them to enter. 

Shaded lights, riotous colors, draped walls and 
ceiling, and the exotic incense contributed to the 
bizarre effect of the long, high room. 


274 


HELEN AND WARREN 


The crimson velvet wall-benches back of the long 
tables left the narrow floor space for the cabaret. 

Still early, the place was empty, except for a 
champagne party of four. 

“Ah, you are fortunate, Monsieur,” after a hur¬ 
ried confab with another waiter. “There has just 
been a cancellation.” 

Settled on the wall-bench, Warren leaned back 
with an exultant chuckle. 

“How ’bout it? Knew he’d come across. A can¬ 
cellation—that’s old stuff!” 

“The Russian dishes are in red, Monsieur,” now 
placing before them a flamboyant menu. “I can 
recommend that fresh caviar. A shipment came 
this morning.” 

“What is this Borstch?" asked Helen with a re¬ 
straining nudge, for the Caviar Frais was forty 
francs. 

“ Borstch , Madame , is cabbage soup and sour 
cream.” 

“Cabbage soup and sour cream?” grimaced 
Warren. “Not for me.” 

“Blinis! Oh! I’ve heard of that,” eagered 
Helen before the waiter could propose another ex¬ 
pensive dish. “Dear, let’s try it.” 

“All right, we’ll take a chance. Trot it along. 
No, I’ll order the rest later.” 

“The wine, Monsieur,” producing the list, sug¬ 
gestively opened at champagnes. 

“How ’bout that number sixteen? Dry? 
Eighteen’s better? A quart.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 275 

“Dear, you could’ve ordered a cheaper brand! 
Number two or three.” 

“Now see here, he came across with a good 
table. We got to loosen up.” 

“But these prices are awful-” 

“Pretty stiff. Russian Comedians! Well, no 
comedian priced that card—rang in a bandit for 
that job.” 

Then again taking up the dinner menu: 

“These prices aren’t so bad. It’s only on the 
wine they soak you. What’s that Blinis, anyway? 
Why were you so keen on that?” 

“I don’t know what it is. But it’s only ten francs 
—everything else is more.” 

“Well, of all the nickel-nursers! Wonder you 
didn’t spot chili sauce—cheaper still.” 

“Dear, look at this draped ceiling,” to divert 
him. “These colored lanterns are rather good. I 
suppose all the decorations are Russian.” 

“Ought to be somethin’ Russian ’round here. 
These waiters are French enough. Hello, lamp that 
jane—nifty get-up!” 

Vivid black-and-red! Sleek, black hair, slinky- 
trained black satin, red tulle scarf, huge, red 
ostrich fan, red Spanish comb, and long red 
gloves. 

“Dear, she’s alone! Do they allow women here 
alone? Oh, look—Americans!” 

“Doing Paris—first trip,” rated Warren as the 
family party was seated. 

The man, bald and prosperous, his hulky wife, 



276 


HELEN AND WARREN 


ill at ease in her new and unbecoming French gown, 
their collegiate son, and pretty flapper daughter. 

“Don’t know the ropes. They’ll get trimmed, 
all right,” predicted Warren, as the hovering head 
waiter suggested the more expensive dishes. 

“You’re the only man not dressed,” Helen 
scanned the rapidly filling tables. 

“We travel fast. Can’t doll up every night. 
Now we’ll see what you drew.” 

“Let’s guess!” eagerly, as their waiter rolled up 
a service table with a covered dish. “I’ll say fish 
with some wonderful sauce. Quick, what do you 
think?” 

“I think we’re lucky if we-Holy Smoke!” 

Helen gasped. The cover lifted displayed—a 
neat stack of griddle cakes! 

“Flapjacks!” sputtered Warren. “Plain one- 
arm lunch flapjacks!” 

With rapt intentness the waiter divided the pile 
of six pancakes—three on each plate. Then, spoon¬ 
ing from a great silver bowl, he proceeded to 
anoint them. 

“What’s he latherin’ on? Shavin’ soap?” 
grunted Warren. 

“Sour cream! They put it on everything—like 
Italians do cheese. But you wouldn’t think on pan¬ 
cakes—Oh, dear, what’s he putting on now? Not 
caviar?” 

From an ice-packed stone jar he scooped out a 
generous spoonful of caviar—to top the sour- 
creamed griddle cakes! 



HELEN AND WARREN 


277 


“Sh—sh, now don’t explode,” whispered Helen. 
“Wait till you try it.” 

Warren fairly glowered as the astounding mix¬ 
ture was placed before them. 

“Delicious!” was Helen’s joyous verdict. “You 
never tasted anything like it.” 

“Hope not,” grimly. “And I never want to!” 

“Dear, you’ll love it!” with increased enthusi¬ 
asm. “Just try it!” 

Scowlingly reluctant, he forked gingerly into his 
portion. 

“Not bad.” Then after the third forkful, 
“You’re all right, Kitten. Picked a winner! 
Blinis! Now remember that’s Russian for ‘brown- 
the-wheats’!” 

“Oh, don’t eat so fast. Take time and enjoy it 
—it’s perfectly wonderful!” 

“See here, why not spring this at home? A 
knockout when we have the Stevens.” 

“Oh, we couldn’t get sour cream like this. They 
make it special.” 

“Hello! What now?” as all the lights flashed 
out. 

Then through the darkness glowed other lights, 
deeply shaded—mauve, green, orange. 

A silencing “sh-sh,” as the woman in black-and- 
red arose from her table. 

In a curiously deep strident voice she lunged an 
impassioned French song. Vigorously plying the 
red fan, she cavorted in the narrow floor space. 


278 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Bum voice—but plenty of pep and assurance,” 
as the lights went up. 

“Why, where’re your cakes?” amazed Helen. 
“Nobody ate while she sang.” 

“I did!” complacently viewing his empty plate. 
“Think I was going to let those sinkers get cold? 
Now here’s the menu. You did pretty well on that 
blind draw. Stick a pin in it—and see what else 
we get.” 

Warren’s gastronomic geniality progressed with 
the dinner. 

Ignoring Helen’s restraining nudges, he ordered 
with reckless extravagance. 

At intervals the lowered lights introduced the 
cabaret turns. Excepting the woman in black- 
and-red, who seemed a fixture, the artists did not 
reappear. 

“Dear, how can they afford so many?” as they 
applauded the sixth turn. 

“They’re on a circuit. Do their stunts at a dozen 
places every night.” 

“That man with the accordion was rather good— 
but the others were very ordinary. That girl who 
danced—did you notice how soiled her gown was?” 

“Wasn’t enough of it to notice. Huh, look at 
that big-front getaway! Tipping everybody in 
sight.” 

After a hurried but pretentious dinner, the 
American party was making a royal exit. Even the 
orchestra shared in the lavish dispensation of 
francs. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


279 


“They only shell out like that on the first trip,” 
shrugged Warren. 

“Did you enjoy the Poularde Russe , Monsieur?” 
removing their plates. 

“No kick on that. Got a good chef here. Now 
what’s that burning dessert you served over there?” 

“Blintchikis Souvoroff,” pointing to the red- 
lettered item under “Entremets.” 

“All right, two on that! We’re taking chances 
tonight.” 

Again the serving table was rolled up. On an 
alcohol burner was placed a metal cup. Into this, 
two small glasses of amber liquor from a curious¬ 
shaped Russian-labeled bottle. 

Stirred with a glass spoon, the heating cordial 
soon burst into flames. 

Then quickly the fiery fluid was poured over 
the two dishes of diced fruit. 

“This’ll knock your eye out,” Warren spooned 
into his still-flaming portion. 

“Nuts in it—and marrons! And what’re these 
green things? Dear, it’s wonderful! But an awful 
thing to eat after all that rich-” 

“Now don’t start on that! Long time ’fore you’ll 
have a shot at a concoction like this—now enjoy it. 
What if they could serve these conflagrations on 
Broadway at ninety cents per? Have ’em standing 
in line to the Battery.” 

“Alligator pear, too!” Helen was still exploring 
the alluring mixture. “And, dear, what’s this 
liqueur? Kirsch or Kiimmel?” 



280 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“More like Vodka. Strong, all right! Glad you 
came? If I’d listened to your broadcasting ’bout 
not being dressed—we’d have missed some darn 
good grub. Those de luxe flapjacks and this three- 
alarm dessert!” 

“But I wonder how we’ll feel tomorrow? They’re 
rather awful combinations.” 

“Well, this’s no health-food spree! If you’re 
on a diet, you’d side-step this joint. Blinis, 
Borstch, Blintchikis —that’s a great line to stoke 
up on! But guess our tum-tums can stand it. 
Anyway, it’s too good to pass up. Here, Gaston!” 
flagging the waiter. “Cook me up another of those 
firework super-sundaes!” 


Helen’s Last-Minute Change of Costume 
Imperils Their Channel Crossing 

“Dear, those Channel boats are always filthy,” 
Helen paused in her packing. “Won’t my old blue 
suit be good enough?” 

“Any ink in your pen?” Warren was writing 
the baggage tags. 

“Yes, there on the table—with those postcards. 
Dear, DO look!” holding up the blue suit. “I’m 
going to have it cleaned in London—but is it good 
enough for this trip?” 

“Anything’s good enough,” not troubling to 
glance up. “That's a bum pen! Where’s a 
blotter?” 

“You’ll have to let it dry. Wouldn’t you think 
they’d have a desk in this room? Eighty francs a 
day—and on the court, too.” 

“We’re checkin’ out now—why start kickin’? 
Always up against it in Paris. Six,” counting the 
tags he had written. “That enough?” 

“Yes, two trunks and four bags. Dear, they 
won’t charge on this if it’s open, will they?” cut¬ 
ting the white kid from an expensive bottle of 
perfume. 

“Won’t be much, if they do. You waste more 
time worryin’ over a few dollars duty. Where’s 
281 


282 


HELEN AND WARREN 


that box of cigars? Now, no smuggling! Put it 
on top where they can see it. Perfume and tobacco 
—that’s all the English hold you up for. Guess 
we can pay on those.” 

“These lovely French boxes! And I always have 
to leave them,” taking some handkerchiefs from 
a gay Bon-Marche box. “They’d be wonderful 
for presents.” 

“Huh, you fill ’em with basement bargains 
bought at home,” he scoffed. “Now what?” tying 
on the last tag. 

“That’s all, unless you’ll write a postcard to 
Aunt Emily. I haven’t written since we were in 
Budapest. Tell her we’ve had a wonderful week in 
Paris, that we’re leaving for London in a few 
hours, and-” 

“Nothing doing! Write your own cards—do 
your own pen-pushing! I’m going down to pay the 
bill. And I’ll dust ’round to that glove shop— 
want a pair of those doeskins for Lawrence.” 

“Why, we got him that Malacca cane—and that 
expensive bag for Carrie! You don’t have to get 
them anything more-” 

But Warren had slammed out with an irate bang. 
Presents for his family always incited hostilities. 
Every trip his selections were more extravagant. 

For the next half hour, Helen packed with 
experienced speed. She must finish in time to 
write those postcards. Use up those French stamps. 

Her new dress! Gloatingly she took it from the 
box. Blonde chiffon with satiny knots of powder- 




HELEN AND WARREN 283 

blue. An exultant thrill at her slimness that 
could stand those triple flounces. 

Better fold it flat on top of Warren’s shirts. 
Crush less there than in her wardrobe trunk. 

The last bag packed. Every drawer searched 
to see that nothing was left. 

Now all ready for the dreaded Channel trip, 
Helen started on the postcards. 

With her accustomed economy, she scribbled the 
same message on them all. 

“Ready?” Warren swung in. “Here’re those 
gloves. Where’ll I put ’em?” 

“In that suitcase—the trunks are locked,” noting 
the bulky envelope proclaimed several pairs. 

“Let’s see what kind of a trip we’re in for.” 
Taking from his pocket an English daily, he turned 
to the “Channel Weather” report. 

“We never had a good crossing yet,” pessimisti¬ 
cally, addressing the last card. 

“By George, this doesn’t look cheering! ‘High 
east winds. Heavy mist. Probably rain.’ ” 

“I’m glad I’m wearing this old suit. Dear, 
what’s Irene’s number? 427? We’ll stay on deck 
even if it does rain—I can’t stand those stuffy 
cabins.” 

“Well, we’re takin’ the Calais crossing—only an 
hour on the Channel. Who you think’s goin’ with 
us? Met ’em yesterday—forgot to tell you. The 
Kelsos!” 

“The KELSOS?” Her pen rolled inkily over 
Cousin Irene’s card. 


284 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Been here all week at the Crillon. Rotten luck 
we didn’t know it. We’d have pulled off some great 
parties!” 

“Here’re the keys!” excitedly. “Open my trunk 
—quick!” 

“Eh? What in blazes-” he spluttered. 

“This old blue suit!” tearing it off. “You don’t 
think I’ll wear this—with the Kelsos?” 

“What they got to do with it? You batty? Leave 
here in ten minutes.” 

“We don’t leave until I get into a decent suit! 
Let her see me in this old thing? You knew it yes¬ 
terday—and never told me. You always-” 

“Here’s the porter for the luggage now!” answer¬ 
ing the knock. 

“He’ll just have to wait,” unlocking the trunk, 
for Warren had made no effort to help her. “If 
you’d only told me!” 

While he fumed and stormed, she dragged out 
her new beige suit. 

“I don’t care if we DO miss it! The tickets are 
good—all but the reservations. We can go tomor¬ 
row. Mrs. Kelso! You know how she dresses!” 

A reminding knock from the porter, still waiting 
in the hall. 

“Une minute /” shrilled Helen, kicking off her 
blue skirt. “If you want to help—put that in! 
Cram it in anyway—you can’t hurt it. Oh, these 
old gloves! Where’d I put my new ones?” up¬ 
setting her neatly packed tray. 

As, with muttered profanity, Warren finally 



HELEN AND WARREN 285 

closed and locked the trunk, Helen called to the 
porter to enter. 

“Gone!” Warren flung open the door. 

Vainly he shouted down the hall. Then dashing 
back to the bedside ’phone, roared at the office to 
send a porter at once. 

A hectic five minutes, and the same man returned. 
He could not speak English, but his exasperating 
shrug disclaimed his responsibility. Not his fault 
their trunks had not been ready. 

“Well, hustle ’em down! Here,” thrusting at 
him a ten-franc note. “Savvy that, don’t you? 
Now make it snappy!” 

His coat over his arm, Warren strode out with 
the two suitcases. 

Flushed and flurried, but arrayed in the smart 
beige suit, Helen followed with the smaller bag. 

Down in the lobby, the head porter rushed up 
with dismaying news. The hotel bus, with the other 
passengers for the Calais-Dover express, had gone. 

“Sorry, monsieur , it left ten minutes ago. But 
you may make it in a taxi.” 

Another maddening delay as three cabs refused 
to take their trunks. The fourth responded with 
alacrity to Warren’s bribe of an extra fifteen francs . 

Through the Place Vendome, on past the Opera, 
and down the Rue La Fayette. A reckless, breath¬ 
taking drive to the Gare du Nord. 

The driver, instructed by the porter to make the 
train, exceeded even the usual dizzy Parisian 
speed. 


286 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Oh!” gasped Helen, as they just missed crash¬ 
ing into another cab. “Oh, tell him—not quite 
so fast!” 

“Now we’re going to get that train—if we break 
our necks doin’ it! Changin’ your duds at the last 
minute!” he fumed. “Next time you pull a fool 
_ 

“If you’d only told me the Kelsos were going!” 
flamingly. “I asked you about that old suit. I 
even said-” 

“Got plenty of good clothes, haven’t you? Buy 
enough! Why the Sam Hill don’t you wear ’em? 
Too blamed stingy? Every time we run into any¬ 
body—you set up a wail you’re not dressed.” 

Then glowering at his watch, 

“Never make it! Take ten minutes to get the 
trunks weighed.” 

“But those Channel trains never leave on time. 
Why, it’s raining!” shrinking from the open win¬ 
dow. “Dear, shut that—I don’t want to get this 
suit wet.” 

“Serve you right if you get soaked! Now we’re 
held up here! Rotten luck,” scowling down the 
taxi-jammed street. “That settles it! Not a China¬ 
man’s chance!” 

At the great dingy station, the gates for the 
Calais train were closed. 

“N’est pas possible /” shrugged the guard. 

“Wait till I flash my roll,” muttered Warren, 
digging into his pocket. “Now’s the time to shell 
out.” 




HELEN AND WARREN 


287 


In Paris nothing is impossible if the tips are 
sufficiently lavish. And Warren’s dispersement of 
francs passed their baggage without being weighed, 
opened the gates, and swept them through. 

Their trunks rushed on to the luggage car, two 
guards bundled them into a first-class carriage, just 
as the train pulled out. 

“Well, we made it!” grunted Warren, piling their 
bags on the overhead rack. 

“Dear, you needn’t have given that last porter 
ten francs —five would’ve been plenty!” brushing 
a smudge from the immaculate beige skirt. “You 
tipped everybody in sight.” 

“You bet I did! That was the time to cough up. 
Wasn’t goin’ to be held over another day for a few 
francs. Wonder which compartment the Kelsos 
have? Guess I’ll look ’em up.” 

As he started out, a train guard came through 
the corridor shouting: 

“Monsieur Curtis! Monsieur Curtis of New 
York!” 

The flimsy pink envelope of a French telegram! 

What was it? Tensely Helen watched him tear 
it open. Who knew they would be on this train? 

A snort from Warren as he scanned the message. 

“That’s a frost!” grimly, tossing it into her lap. 

SORRY CANNOT CROSS WITH YOU STAY¬ 
ING UNTIL TOMORROW SEE YOU IN LON¬ 
DON STOPPING AT SAVOY 


W. G. KELSO 


288 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“All those tips—and extras!” wailed Helen. 
“All for nothing!” 

“ ‘All for nothing,’ is good! Your bloomin’ 
duds-” 

“But I asked you,” unwisely argumentative. “I 
asked you if that old suit would do. You knew 
about the Kelsos—yet you said anything was good 
enough!” 

“What if I did? Got ’nough to do without pass- 
in’ on your clothes! Tickets, reservations, luggage, 
half a dozen kinds of money—and gettin’ stung on 
this damned exchange! All you do is tag along. 
Can’t even dress yourself without pesterin’ me. 
Want me to tell you what to wear—write your fool 
postcards—be feedin’ you with a spoon next!” 

Then, savagely, as he flopped down by the win¬ 
dow: 

“I’m fed up with your Dumb Dora helplessness. 
Talk ’bout your female plants! As a dead-weight 
clinging-vine—you’re a top-liner!” 


A London “Service Flat” Awaits Their 
Arrival on a Fog-Gloomed Night 

“Same old fog!” growled Warren. 

“I love it!” Helen peered out at the mist-blurred 
lights. “It seems more like London.” 

“Darn damp and chilly,” drawing up the glass 
in the taxi door. 

“We’ll have a fire. Dear, aren’t you glad it’s the 
same flat? I can see you in that big chair before 
the grate. I hope it’ll all be just the same. You 
never want things to change in London.” 

“Stand a change in the weather! Fed up with 
this bloomin’ fog last year.” 

“Pall Mall!” eagerly. “The Haymarket! Gar¬ 
land’s Hotel—remember that manageress? The 
Monument!” as they sped on towards Trafalgar 
Square. “How wonderful through this mist! Oh, 
don’t you love it? You KNOW you love London!” 

“Hope there’s no slip-up ’bout that flat,” as they 
swung into Horseguards Avenue. “What’d I do 
with that letter?” 

“Dear, everybody there knows us now. The 
English are always wonderful to you when you 
go back,” scanning the letter he took from his 
wallet. 


289 


290 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Warren E. Curtis, Esq., 

Hotel Continental, 

Paris. 

Dear Sir: 

The flat you had last year has been 
leased by Sir Robert Treadwell, who is 
now in Scotland for the shooting. Upon 
our recommendation, he has consented to 
sublet it for the fortnight you designate. 

We are glad to welcome you and Mrs. 
Curtis back to Whitehall Court, and trust 
you will be most comfortable. 

Yours respectfully, 

G. L. Dowey, Ass’t Mgr., 

Whitehall Court.” 

“Nothing about the rate,” anxioused Helen. 
“What if it’s more?” 

“We’ll pay it, that’s all! Darn lucky to get in. 
Whole lot more comfortable than a hotel. Best 
address in London, too. And what’s more impor¬ 
tant—they’ve got a corking good restaurant!” 

“There it is!” as the great grim structure loomed 
through the murky night. 

Whitehall Court! The imposing buildings that 
housed the Liberal, Junior Army and Navy, 
Golfers’, West Indian, Authors’, and other ex¬ 
clusive clubs. 

They were drawing up now before the portal 
lights of No. 4. 

“The same doorman!” glowed Helen. “What’s 
his name? Parks—isn’t it?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


291 


A beaming welcome from the gold-braided dig¬ 
nitary. Their bags carried in, he rushed back to 
help with the trunks. 

The heavy double doors, the lofty halls with the 
rich dark woodwork and checkered marble floors. 
The same stately atmosphere that had always 
thrilled Helen. 

“Your flat’s all ready for you, sir,” the lift man 
assured them. 

Fifth floor. Through a spacious private hall, 
and finding the key under the rug, he ushered them 
into the ideal English “service flat.” 

Sitting-room, bedroom, and a monstrous bath. 
Substantially furnished with all the accessories of 
English comfort. 

Heavy damask draperies, overstuffed chairs, fur 
rugs, cushions, and many shaded lamps. 

The fresh flowers, laid fires, and polished brass 
were cheerful notes of welcome. 

“Well, here’s where we get thawed out!” War¬ 
ren touched a match to the sitting-room grate. 
“Light the one in the bedroom, too?” 

“No, no, it’ll be too hot to sleep. Oh, here come 
the trunks!” 

“Will you want this in the bedroom, m’am?” 

“Yes, and the other in the bathroom—just where 
we had them last year.” 

A knock at the half-open door. The maid. But 
not the same maid! 

“Oh, has Judkins left?” dismayed Helen. 

“No, m’am, it’s her evening off.” Then when 


292 


HELEN AND WARREN 


she drew the curtains, ‘‘Anything I can do, m’am? 
Shall I help you unpack?” 

“No, thank you, not tonight,” evaded Helen. 

Another knock. The valet. The same valet! 

“Yes, it’s Higgins, sir,” with his toothy smile. 
“Glad to see you back, sir. I see you came from 
Paris,” glancing at their bags. “Good crossing, 
sir?” 

“Rotten!” 

“Apt to be a bit rough this time of year, sir. 
Any clothes to brush or press? Any boots, sir?” 

“Not tonight, Higgins. Have some for you in 
the morning.” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“Well, we’re here!” Warren sank into the big 
chair before the fire. “Not bad, eh? The English 
know how to take care of you. Nothing like these 
service flats for solid comfort. Hello, don’t re¬ 
member that sideboard!” 

“No, that must be his. And this lovely old 
china! I wonder if he has all his meals served 
up here? Staffordshire!” examining one of the 
plates. “If we should break anything! Dear, we 
must be awfully careful!” 

“He’s got some good books here,” hitching his 
chair to the low open shelves. “History, political 
economy, travel-” 

“Excuse me, sir!” The valet again. “I forgot 
to ask about your bath. What time would you like 
it drawn? At eight, sir?” 

“Not tomorrow. I’m going to rest up. You 
needn’t come till I ring.” 



HELEN AND WARREN 


293 


“Very good, sir.” 

“Well, this’s the life!” Taking from the bottom 
shelf “Tiger-Hunting in India,” he adjusted the 
reading lamp. 

“Dear, before you get settled—come lift out 
these trays.” 

“Eh? Why didn’t you let that maid help you? 
What she’s here for.” 

“I didn’t want her. I’d much rather unpack 
alone.” 

“Same old boat!” Warren grinned at the massive 
wood-bound tub, as he unlocked the trunk in the 
bathroom. 

“ 6 R. T.’,” deciphering the monogram on the 
towels. “Then he furnishes his own linen. Do we 
have it laundered or the house? They charge extra 
for everything. Last year they even put brass 
polish and chimney cleaning on the bill!” 

“Now don’t start on that! The English always 
ring in extras. But we’ll not worry over a few shil¬ 
lings. Hello, what’s this?” stalking into the bed¬ 
room. 

“Why, they’ve taken out the dressing-table and 
put that in! He must be a bachelor,” opening the 
great mahogany valet-wardrobe. 

With British thoroughness every compartment 
was labeled. Shirts, Waistcoats, Pajamas, Collars, 
Boots, Spats, Socks, Cravats. 

“Huh, bet Higgins’s achin’ to park my stuff in 
here. Won’t make much of a showin’. Not as 
strong on clothes as Sir Robert.” 


294 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Oh, he’s left a lot of boxes!” raising the cre¬ 
tonne flounce, Helen peered under one of the beds. 
“A traveling case—I wonder what’s in it? It’s 
been everywhere—Singapore, Cape Town, Mel¬ 
bourne! Oh, I love those labels!” 

“Like to swipe ’em, wouldn’t you? Soak ’em 
off and slap ’em on your trunk!” 

“What’s this?” now exploring under the other 
bed. “Something in a sheet.” 

“Here, stop your snoopin’ around! Where d’you 
want this tray?” 

“No, not on the bed—that lovely silk comforter! 
On this chair.” 

“Now if you’re going to fuss around in here— 
you’d better have this fire. Cool off quick enough 
when we open the windows.” 

Glowingly cheerful with that crackling blaze! 
She tried not to think of the charge for each fire. 
What was it? Two shillings—or one and six? 

But they were paying so much for the flat— 
absurd to worry over extras. And her small econo¬ 
mies always irritated Warren. 

For the next hour, Helen was purringly happy 
distributing their things in the familiar chests and 
cupboards. The joy of familiarity! Of coming 
back—of doing the same thing in the same way 
year after year! 

“Having a good time?” Warren glanced up as 
she arranged on the mantel some of her treasured 
antiques—snuff boxes and reliquiae bought in 
Vienna. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


295 


“Oh, 1 love it! I always love getting settled over 
here. But it’s only for two weeks,” wistfully. “I 
wish it were two months.” 

“Well, I don’t!” throwing on more coal with the 
polished brass tongs. “I got to get back on the 
job. Holy Smoke, you never satisfied? Here I 
blow you to a couple of weeks in London every 
year—and you put up a kick to stay longer!” 

“You know I didn’t mean it that way,” curling 
up on the white fur rug at his feet. “Dear, not 
another cigar! Where’s your pipe—it’s much more 
English. In your suitcase? Wait, I’ll get it.” 

“Bring my slippers!” he called after her. 

His pipe lit, his slippered feet on the polished 
fender, Warren leaned back with a contented grunt. 

“Now, aren’t you comfy?” again curled on the 
rug, Helen poked the fire to a larger blaze. 
“There’s something so snug and cozy about these 
English flats. You’d never get this atmosphere in 
a furnished apartment at home.” 

“Well, these open fires beat radiators. You can 
spit in ’em, for one thing!” 

“You always say that—it’s not a bit funny. 
Listen—Big Ben!” as the great Parliament clock 
boomed out. “Ten! Oh, something scorching!” 
she sniffed. “Don’t you smell it? Your shoe!” 
rescuing the one he had left on the fender. 

“You can give those to Higgins when we leave. 
Last shoes I’ll ever have made here. Third pair 
that’s cracked on me!” 

“I never knew why you got shoes here, anyway. 


296 


HELEN AND WARREN 


They can’t touch the American shoes,” admiring her 
own slim pumps. “But do start your suits in time. 
That tailor’s so slow! And this year you’re going 
to get an overcoat.” 

“Who said I was? What’s the matter with that 
brown one? Well, it’s good enough!” 

“Dear, let’s make a list of the things we want 
to get!” indefatigably. “Give me a pencil.” 

“Now no list-makin’ tonight! Jove, you always 
got to be doin’ something. Don’t be so blamed rest¬ 
less. Turn down that pep! Now tomorrow’s Sun¬ 
day. I’m not goin’ to do a darn thing—not even 
write letters! Sleep late, have breakfast served 
up here—and loaf all day.” 

“Yes, we’ll rest up tomorrow. But if it’s nice— 
let’s take a bus-ride in the afternoon,” eagerly 
anticipating her yearly orgies of long, blissful, 
London bus-top rides. “We’ll go out to Worm¬ 
wood Scrubbs, or Putney, or Seven Kings, or-” 

“Not much we won’t!” savagely. “You’ll not 
drag me on any of those tiresome jaunts. Been 
chasin’ around Europe for the last two months. 
Fed up with rushin’ all over the map. Now no 
bus-ridin’, no galleries, no museums! We’re 
parked in darn comfortable quarters here—and 
we’re going to stay PUT! Just watch me settle 
down and do a loaf!” 



Warren Yields His Restful Sunday to 
the Lure of an Aylesbury Duck 

Snuggled under the covers, drowsily Helen 
watched the laying of their bedroom fire. 

Judkins! The same maid they had had last 
year. Noiselessly she took out the ashes, laid the 
paper, kindling, coal, and brushed up the hearth. 

Then stole out, softly closing the door. 

After nine! Helen glanced at Warren’s watch 
on the stand between their beds. 

He was still sleeping heavily. That tiring trip 
from Paris yesterday! 

But now they were in London! The gray misty 
lure of London! She begrudged every moment 
wasted in bed. 

Stealthy sounds. Judkins “doing” their sitting- 
room. 

An awakening grunt from Warren. 

“Dear, it’s after nine. Hadn’t we better get 
up?” 

“Sunday!” he yawned. “Nothin’ to do but 
rest.” 

“Oh, there’s Big Ben! Half past! I’m getting 
up, anyway. Think, dear, we’re in London!” 

“Shut that window! And have ’em make a fire 
in here. Don’t mind the cold—but this damp chill 
gets in your bones.” 


297 


298 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“The fire’s all ready to light—she just laid it.” 

Throwing on her robe, Helen closed the heavy 
double windows, and touched a match to the grate. 

“How ’bout kippers for breakfast? Punch that 
bell! Better order now.” 

“No, dear, let’s go down,” thinking of the extra 
service charge. 

“Now no nickel-nursing! We took this flat to 
be comfortable. Have our breakfasts up here!” 

“Did you ring, m’am?” Judkins entered from 
the sitting-room. “Good morning, m’am—I’m 
glad to see you back again. Good morning, sir.” 

“Yes, it’s nice we could get the same flat,” Helen 
was brushing her hair. “Have you been well, Jud¬ 
kins? Everything just the same?” 

“I want to order breakfast,” broke in Warren, 
still in bed. 

“Yes, sir, I’ll send Higgins right in, sir.” 

The fire was blazing up now. The polished brass 
and mahogany reflected the cheerful glow. 

“Don’t you love it?” thrilled Helen. “There’s 
nothing so cozy as an English flat. This chintz 
always brightens up a bedroom.” 

“Good morning. Shall I run your bath now, 
sir?” The valet was at the door. 

“I’ll order breakfast first. What d’you recom¬ 
mend, Higgins? Kippers?” 

“Kippers are always good, sir. The bloaters 
run very nice this time of year. And the fresh 
fish this morning is whiting, sir.” 

“Whiting? The one they cook with its tail in its 


HELEN AND WARREN 299 

mouth?” Helen was rummaging in her trunk. “I’ll 
have that.” 

“Guess I’ll stick to kippers,” Warren reached for 
his bathrobe. 

“Anything to follow, sir?” 

“Bacon and eggs! Any Wiltshire bacon? That’s 
all right, you needn’t have it!” at Helen’s protest. 

“But I’m ready for a full-sized breakfast.” 

“Very good, sir. I’ll draw your bath now, sir.” 

“Darn more interested in that bath than he is in 
breakfast,” grumbled Warren, slouching out of 
bed. 

“Dear, we’ve been having only coffee and rolls 
•—and now you order this heavy-” 

“No more Continental breakfasts for me! In 
England now. Goin’ to have a real British break¬ 
fast,” as he shuffled to the bath. 

Helen, having to wait until he was through, the 
proper procedure in England, finished the unpack¬ 
ing started the night before. 

Two weeks! Settling down for two weeks before 
they sailed. In the same “service flat” they had 
last year—now sublet from Sir Robert Treadwell. 

“Get out my heavies!” shouted Warren from the 
bathroom. “Need ’em here.” 

“Oh, you’re shaving? You’ll have to hurry,” 
handing in the underwear. 

“Plenty of time,” lathering on the soapy mask. 
“They’re slow as pond water.” 

Serving breakfast at Whitehall Court was a 
serious, complicated ceremony. 



300 HELEN AND WARREN 

First came a tray with the linen, silver, china and 
marmalade. 

The table drawn before the sitting-room fire, the 
valet proceeded to set it. 

By the time the breakfast tray proper arrived 
Warren was shaved and dressed. 

“You’ll find those kippers very nice, sir,” when 
Higgins served the crisply grilled herrings. “I’ll 
put the bacon and eggs down here, sir, to keep 
them warm,” placing a covered dish on the fender 
before the glowing grate. 

“Yes, that kipper’s all right, Higgins.” Warren 
forked into the rich, brown meat. “Can’t get ’em 
that way in America—not the same flavor.” 

“Oh, look, the pigeons! The ones we fed last 
year!” 

Snatching a piece of toast, Helen ran out on the 
stone balcony. 

“Here, shut that window!” 

But with the friendly pigeons pecking from her 
hand she was blissfully unmindful of Warren’s 
irate shouts. 

“Remember that lame one?” coming back for 
more toast. “Fatter than ever!” 

“Greedy beggars! Just waitin’ for hand-outs. 
Sit down and eat your breakfast. Take this,” 
giving her his empty kipper plate. “Now my bacon 
and eggs!” 

With her napkin Helen lifted from the fender the 
hot, covered dish. 

“Can’t beat this Wiltshire bacon! Lean—from 


HELEN AND WARREN 301 

the shoulder. Never get that cut at home. Want 
some? Here, try a piece.” 

“No, no,” mincing at her flaky whiting. “I can’t 
change from just coffee and rolls to a heavy break¬ 
fast the first day.” 

“Well, I can! If they’d only give you hot toast. 
Always cool it off in these damned racks!” 

Spearing a piece on her fork Helen held it over 
the glowing coals. 

“There, now butter it while it’s hot! That’s de¬ 
licious sweet butter.” 

His bacon and eggs dispatched, she re-toasted 
two more slices for his orange marmalade. 

“Well, that’s one good breakfast!” leaning 
back. 

“I’ll save this for the pigeons. I guess we can 
keep this plate.” 

“Was everything all right, sir?” Higgins came in 
for the tray. 

“Great! Repeat on that tomorrow. ’Bout eight- 
thirty. Want to get started early. And I’d like a 
paper now—the Referee or the Observer 

“Very good, sir,” dexterously clearing the table. 

Warren settled in the big chair with the Sunday 
Observer , Helen sorted their two-weeks-of-fast- 
travel laundry. 

“Dear, will you make a list of these while I count 
them? Oh, never mind!” at his muttered invective. 
“I’ll do it myself.” 

And her blue suit to be cleaned! She must send 
that tomorrow. In London dry-cleaning always 


302 HELEN AND WARREN 

took a “fortnight”—unless one paid double for 
“express.” 

“Don’t you want to read to me?” when finally 
she settled down with an armful of hosiery. 

“No, I DON’T! Great guns, can’t you ever 
leave me alone?” 

Half an hour of darning. Planning things “to 
do” and “to buy” in London. 

“Dear, it’s getting too hot,” pushing back from 
the fire. “Oh, the sun through this mist!” as she 
opened the window. “Do come out here—this light 
on the river!” looking down the embankment to that 
gray, grim pile—the Houses of Parliament. “Don’t 
you love this view?” 

“It’s London, all right!” yawned Warren, follow¬ 
ing her out on the balcony. 

“That bridge in this haze—like a Whistler etch¬ 
ing! That’s Waterloo, isn’t it? And way down 
there—is that London Bridge?” 

“No, Blackfriars. Can’t see London Bridge from 
here. Too misty.” 

“But, dear, it’s not damp now. It’s going to be 
a wonderful day!” eagerly. “Couldn’t we take a 
bus-top ride—just out to Wormwood Scrubbs?” 

“Now no bus-rides!” belligerently. “Told you 
that last night. Goin’ to rest up today. Not budge 
from this flat. Shut that window!” he stepped back 
into the room. “Cooled off enough.” 

Again he settled with his paper, again Helen took 
up her mending. 

But the lure of a bus-top ride was strong within 


HELEN AND WARREN 


303 


her. If Warren only loved it as she did—those 
long explorations out through the London suburbs. 

Adventuring in London! To scramble up on any 
bus—to see where it took you. Staying on to the 
end of the route! And back another way! 

“Dear, you remember that wonderful dinner out 
at Richmond?” artfully. “The Greyhound Inn, 
wasn’t it? You wanted to go out there again some¬ 
time.” 

“Now tune off on that! You don’t drag me out 
today!” 

“But we’re going out somewhere for dinner?” 

“Who said so? Goin’ to have dinner right here. 
If you feel so all-fired peppy—get out on your own. 
Bus-ride the whole darn day if you want to!” 

“I wouldn’t enjoy it alone—you know I 
wouldn’t.” 

“Then stop harping on it. I’m NOT goin’— 
that’s THAT!” 

Another half hour. Warren now figuring over 
his letter of credit. Helen running a tuck in a Paris 
costume slip. 

To waste a whole day—with the enchantment of 
London outside! The gray antiquity in this soften¬ 
ing mist. Old-world streets, quaint rambling by¬ 
ways. 

A tinkling bell from the desk. The telephone! 

“Hello! . . . Mr. Curtis? Just a moment. 
Dear, somebody we know,” her hand over the 
instrument. “His voice sounds familiar.” 


304 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Who in blazes knows we’re here?” with a sav¬ 
age kick at the hassock. 

“Yes? . . . Who? . . . Tregaskis? Well, 
Jimmy, old skate, how are you? . . .Just last 
night . . .No, rotten crossing . . . She’s well 
. . . What time? . . . Hampstead bus from Char¬ 
ing Cross? . . . Good!” 

Helen stood in rapt expectancy as he hung up the 
receiver. 

“Wants us to come out for supper. Remember 
that feed they gave us last year? Aylesbury duck 
and Yorkshire ham! Couldn’t turn that down! He 
says leave here ’bout three—get out in time for 
tea. Takes an hour.” 

“And we’re going on a bus-top?” ecstatically. 

“Huh, get your bloomin’ ride after all, don’t 
you? Got Jimmy Tregaskis to thank for that. 
Nobody else could’ve dug me out today. Their 
cook’s a humdinger! Best grub we ever had in 
London.” 

Then, with a yawning glance at his watch: 

“Almost one now. Think I’ll pull off a snooze. 
That blamed fire makes me sleepy,” slumping 
down on the couch. “Guess we’ll pass up lunch. 
Want a full-sized appetite for that supper. Hope 
we get a repeat on the Aylesbury duck!” 


Helen’s Ardent Love for Animals 
Naively Solves Their Passage 
Problem 

Piccadilly at dusk! 

The swarm of home-bound clerks, the endless 
line of packed buses, the booming din of traffic, the 
shouts of cockney street venders. 

On the Swan & Edgar corner Helen waited by a 
window of “6 Guinea” gowns. But the simpering 
wax figures failed to lure her. 

Warren had said six. It was now almost half 
past! 

Then she saw him—elbowing his way toward her. 

“Waitin’ long? Been at the steamship office.” 

“Oh, did they have anything better?” eagerly. 

“Not a darn thing! No cancellations/’ steering 
her through the crowd. “Afraid to wait any longer 
—so I nailed that room.” 

“Not that inside one-way down on ‘E’ deck?” 

“It’s that or nothing! And I’ve got to go by that 
boat.” 

“But, dear, that man you know? The one who 
always takes care of us-” 

“Still on his holidays. This other bird’s hard- 
boiled. I put up a stiff fight—but he wouldn’t 
come across. The boat’s full—but they’ve always 
something in reserve.” 


305 



306 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“ ‘E’ deck!” dismayed Helen. “Dear, I’ll die 
down there. And inside, too—not a breath of air! 
I’ll be sick all the way over.” 

“Best I could do! Now drop it! Where we goin’ 
for dinner?” 

“We haven’t been to the Cheshire Cheese this 
trip,” trying not to think of the wretched homeward 
voyage. 

“Take too long to get down in this jam. I’m tired 
—want to go somewhere near. How ’bout the Carl¬ 
ton Grill?” 

“No, dear, we can go to hotel restaurants at 
home. We’ve only four more nights in London 
—let’s go to some old chop house.” 

“Not many left ’round here. By George, I’ve 
got it! That place Bennett took me to lunch— 
Crowley’s! Best meal I’ve had this trip. Come 
on, it’s not far,” hailing a taxi. 

“Crowley’s?” puzzled the driver. “I don’t seem 
to know that, sir.” 

“Been there over two hundred years—ought to 
know it,” growled Warren. “Well, drive up Ox¬ 
ford to the top of Bond.” 

Only three more days! Forcing back the thought 
of the stateroom, Helen reveled in the soft mist, 
blurred lights, and smoky odor of London. 

Oxford Street now. More cluttered, over¬ 
crowded show-windows. The English shopman’s 
idea of displaying his stock. 

“Pull up along here!” Warren’s cane signaled 
the driver. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


307 


“Oh, what a quaint old place!” as she sprang 
out. “Almost opposite Marshall & Snelgrove’s— 
and I’ve never noticed it!” 

The narrow, sagging, old-world house shrank 
back from the menacing modern shops. 

“Crowley’s. Est. 1712” was the faded sign over 
the dingy doorway. 

A low, sawdusted room with a charcoal grill in 
the rear. Deserted, except for three men with mugs 
of ale at one of the bare wooden tables. 

“Guess they don’t do much here at night—a 
lunch place. Let’s take a look upstairs.” 

Up dark, steep steps to a low, oak-beamed room. 
A solitary diner at the long table that filled the 
floor space. 

“Not very lively,” grumbled Warren, as they 
slid in on the wall bench. Then, as a shirt-sleeved 
waiter appeared, “Serve dinner here?” 

“Give you a nice chop, sir. But no joints at 
night.” 

“How ’bout some fish first? Had some rippin’ 
sole here the other day.” 

“I’ll ask the cook, sir.” 

“Well, see if you can’t fix us up. And some of 
that Musty Ale!” 

“This old beamed ceiling—and that huge fire¬ 
place!” enthused Helen. “But things don’t look 
over-clean.” 

“Now pipe down on that! You always want to 
come to these old places—then kick ’cause they’re 
not slicked up like a pink tea-room.” 


308 


HELEN AND WARREN 


The waiter re-appeared, his greasy alpaca coat 
a decorous tribute to Helen. 

“The cook’s grilling you the sole, sir,” placing 
before them two foaming pewter mugs. “Will you 
have the chops underdone, sir?” 

“Yes, well underdone. Some bubble-and-squeak 
—and grilled tomatoes.” 

A heavy tread on the steps. A ruddy, well- 
groomed Englishman entered. 

At his stiff bow of recognition Warren nodded 
curtly. 

Helen’s whispered, “Who is it?” was rebuffed 
with a silencing scowl. 

“Good evening, sir,” the waiter wiped off the 
table before the newcomer. 

“Loin chop with kidney. Pint of half-and-half. 
How are you, Peter?” as a huge black cat jumped 
up on the bench beside him. 

Apparently they were old friends, for the behind- 
the-ear massage was expectantly received. 

When the Englishman dismissingly took up his 
newspaper, Peter, with stately reluctance, re¬ 
sponded to Helen’s come-hither glance. 

“Oh, how big and fat! No? Won’t you let me 
pet you?” 

“Owns the place,” grumped Warren. “Saucy 
beggar. Ah, here comes our sole!” 

“Be careful, sir, that plate’s very ’ot. You’ll find 
that very nice, sir.” 

“Looks great! You can’t beat the English sole.” 

Warren’s geniality expanded under the grilled 


HELEN AND WARREN 309 

sole and Musty Ale, but the Deck “E” stateroom 
still gloomed Helen’s thoughts. 

“Dear, tomorrow I’m going down to that steam¬ 
ship office and see what I can do,” impulsively. 
“What’s his name? Gilson? If I tell him how ill 
I’ll be in an inside room—that I MUST have air 
—he might-” 

“Now, that’s all settled!” sharply. “Here, you 
won’t get this at home!” 

“No, no more! But, dear, if I approach him 
right—you bluster so! You antagonize people 
—you demand things. I got that room in Paris 
after the clerk told you they hadn’t any. Now I’m 
going down-” 

An under-the-table nudge from Warren. A 
silencing warning nudge! 

What had she said? Puzzled, she glanced 
around. No one but the Englishman, now dis¬ 
patching the loin chop behind his propped-up 
Evening Standard . 

“At least I can ask if there’s any cancellation—” 

“Now I’ve attended to our passage. That’s 
settled! Hand me the salt! By the way, I ran 
into Tracey today—just got back from Spain. Had 
a great time. Says we ought to go there next year. 
How ’bout it?” 

“No, no, not to Spain! They’re too cruel to ani¬ 
mals. Those horrible bull-fights! Those poor old 
horses—blindfolded and helpless,” with a shudder. 
“Ring Lardner wrote it up. He said no lover of 
horses could stand it.” 




310 HELEN AND WARREN 

“Well, we can go to Spain without takin’ in a 
bull-fight.” 

“I don’t want to go, anyway. I’ve seen pictures 
of their wretched cab horses. That’s why I love 
the English—they’re SO good to animals. Aren’t 
they, Peter?” stroking the sleek ball of fur, now 
dozing on the bench beside her. 

“Too underdone, sir? A little more fire?” 

“No, just right!” Warren viewed the smoking 
chops. 

“No more bubble-and-squeak, sir, but I brought 
you some vegetable marrow. And the tomatoes will 
be right up, sir.” 

“Look, dear, he smells the chop. Yes, I’ll give 
you some!” 

But the bit of browned fat was sniffingly re¬ 
fused. 

“Choosey, aren’t you? Want some of the lean? 
There! That cunning white nose—and white spats, 
too! My, how loud you purr! I’d love to take you 
with us. Would you like to go to America? You 
would?” Then, with a sigh, “But I’m afraid you 
wouldn’t enjoy the trip—not in that inside state¬ 
room.” 

“Stop foolin’ with that cat!” grouched Warren. 
“Your chop’s gettin’ cold.” 

“I’d like some sauce with it. Harvey’s or 
Escoffer’s.” 

“You don’t want to spoil that with sauce,” he 
frowned. “The real flavor—cooked over charcoal! 
Can’t get a better chop in London.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


311 


“Well, I’d like something with it—a salad,” 
caring little for meat. “Dear, he didn’t bring us a 
menu.” 

“No menus here! You take what they’ve got. 
Doubt if they’ve any salad—but you can get some 
celery. Serve that with cheese. Had some great 
Stilton here for lunch.” 

The Englishman, who had followed his chop 
and vegetables with Cheddar and watercress, now 
gathered up his gloves and stick. 

“Pardon me, but I couldn’t help hearing what 
you said about bull-fights. I was in Spain two 
years ago and saw part of one. I left before it was 
over. It’s no sport for anyone who loves horses.” 

“That’s why I’ll never go there—nor Mexico, 
either! But England—you’ve such wonderful 
horses here!” glowed Helen, eagerly responsive. 

“I’m glad you think we’re good to animals. So 
you’d like to take Peter with you?” tweaking the 
black ears. “Then we’ll have to make him com¬ 
fortable. If you’ll stop at the office tomorrow, Mr. 
Curtis, we’ll try to fix you up with a better state¬ 
room.” 

Helen could only stare as the color flamed her 
face. His stiff bow when he entered—and War¬ 
ren’s warning nudges! She should have known! 

“That’s mighty decent of you, Mr. Gilson,” 
Warren had risen. 

“Right after you left, we had a cancellation. 
An ‘A’ deck room—outside. I’ll attend to the 
transfer.” 


312 


HELEN AND WARREN 


A final tweak of Peter’s ears, a British bow, and 
he was gone. 

“Well, what d’you know ’bout that?” grinned 
Warren as he sat down. 

“He heard everything I said!” fluttered Helen. 
“Oh, what DID I say?” 

“Said you were goin’ down to vamp him! I 
tried to tip you off—but you kept on chewin’ the 
rag. Guess he thought he’d rather cough up now 
—than have you buttin’ in tomorrow.” 

“On ‘A’ deck—outside!” ignoring his ungra¬ 
cious version. “Oh, he was wonderful—I could’ve 
hugged him! And just because he loves animals 
—and he saw I did,” exultantly, cuddling Peter. 
“You always fuss about my ‘gushing’ over cats 
—but it got us an 6 A’ deck stateroom!” 

“And I’ll never hear the end of it! That’ll be 
your new record. If you pull off anything—trust 
you to harp on it. I get all the reservations for the 
whole darned trip. If I don’t land the best there 
is every time—guess my average isn’t so rotten!” 

Then, as the waiter entered: 

“How’s the Stilton runnin’? Good and ripe? 
Well, two on that—with celery and brown biscuits. 
And here,” shoving over his tankard, “a double 
repeat on the Musty!” 


A British Doctor’s Exorbitant Fee 
Proves a Provocative Panacea 

“Here, take out one of these pillows!” grumbled 
Warren. “And fix that curtain—shines right in my 
eyes. Where’s my handkerchief?” 

“Why, you just had it,” Helen drew the heavy 
damask curtain. “There—under your pillow.” 

“Jove, I feel rocky! Think I’ve got a fever?” 

“No, dear,” feeling his forehead. “But all that 
rich food last night—with your cold—to burden 
your stomach with steak and kidney pie and that 
stewed cheese!” 

“Huh, that never hurt me. You want to stuff a 
cold. Got a hand-glass? Let’s have a look at my 
throat. Turn on that light! Hold it here!” 

Sitting up, he examined his throat by the bed¬ 
side lamp. 

“Thought so—inflamed! All red—and sore as 
blazes! This rotten London weather! Here’s 
where I have a doctor.” 

“Open wider!” peering over his shoulder. 
“Why, dear, it doesn’t look inflamed to me.” 

“Doesn’t eh?” belligerently. “My throat—guess 
I know how it feels. Got a temperature, too. Now 
you get a doctor! Call down to the office.” 

“Here’s Higgins with the lemons. We’ll ask 
him.” 


313 


314 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“I brought some sugar, too, m’am,” The valet 
placed a tray on the table. 

“Higgins, Mr. Curtis thinks he ought to have a 
doctor. Is there any here in the house?” 

“Sir Harvey Dring, m’am. But he takes only 
serious cases.” 

“Well, a sore throat and a fever are darned seri¬ 
ous!” bristled Warren. “Now you get somebody 
right away!” 

“Very good, sir. And I’ll send the maid with 
some coals. The fire’s a bit low.” 

“Can’t keep that blamed handkerchief!” again 
fumbling under his pillow. 

“Here’s a fresh one. Now I’ll make the lemon¬ 
ade. I’ll put in a little sherry.” 

“Put in a lot!” hunching up the covers. “Good 
for a cold.” 

In the huge, dreary, English bathroom, Helen 
heated the water on the alcohol tea-stand, an ap¬ 
pointment of their “service” flat. 

What if they could not sail Saturday? Only two 
more days! 

But Warren was always an alarmist. His slight¬ 
est pain or ache always serious. 

Leaving the water to heat, she ran back to his 
impatient summons. 

“Forgot that confounded tailor! Ring him up— 
call off that fitting.” 

“Why, I thought you were all through? Isn’t he 
to deliver them tomorrow?” 

“Only the two suits. Wants another try-on for 


HELEN AND WARREN 315 

the overcoat. But tell him to go ahead and finish 
it up.” 

“Wadley & Brooks, isn’t it? What’s the num¬ 
ber?” 

“Look in my pocket. Other side!” as she 
fumbled in his coat on the chair. “And while you’re 
at it, call up the Army & Navy ’bout those 
shirts.” 

“Dear, here comes Judkins! Now I’ll ask her 
about that hot-water bag.” 

The maid, entering with a bucket of coal, knelt 
before the fire. 

“Judkins, Mr. Curtis doesn’t like that stone jug. 
Can’t you get a bag?” 

“I’ll ask the ’ousekeeper, m’am. But we mostly 
use the jugs here.” 

“Can’t budge the bloomin’ thing!” kicking the 
heavy jug at his feet. 

“Now, dear, take a little of this,” urged Helen, 
when she brought in the lemonade. “Too hot?” at 
his muttered invective. “You want it hot.” 

“Don’t want to scald my innards. Ugh, sour! No 
sherry in that!” 

“Yes, I put in a lot. Drink it! There, doesn’t 
that warm you? Now if you could take a little 
nap?” hopefully, straightening the covers. 

“Well, I can’t! Feel too rotten to sleep.” 

“Shall I read to you?” taking up the Tele¬ 
graph . “ ‘Stormy Scene in House of Commons.’ 

No? Here’s an editorial on ‘Labor Unrest in 
America’.” 


316 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Helluva lot they know ’bout it! Always spoutin’ 
labor unrest over here.” 

“Oh, these personals! Dear, they’re too funny 
for words! Listen to this: 

“‘F. W. No letter. All is for¬ 
given. H. L.’ 

“ ‘Will the lady in black who got off at 
Charing Cross Tube Station be at same 
place Sunday at three? Grey Bowler.’ 

“ ‘Have you forgotten? I must see 
you. Marie’.” 

“Here, pass up that slush! Do something for this 
headache!” 

“Dear, if you’d try not to think of it-” 

“Huh, that not-thinking-of-it may work with you 
—but I’m SICK! Don’t that feel hot?” pressing 
her hand to his forehead. 

“Why, you just had that hot lemonade—and that 
jug at your feet!” 

“Well, I’m not takin’ any chances in this bum 
climate. Get a doctor!” 

“Why, you sent Higgins- Oh, there’s some¬ 

one now!” 

Only a delivery boy with a package. 

“Your shirts. Now I won’t have to ’phone. Do 
you want to see them?” 

“No! And don’t want to be read to, either!” 
as she took up the paper. 

“Then try to take a nap—and I’ll pack. If I 




HELEN AND WARREN 317 

must go to the bank and to Suckling’s tomorrow—I 
ought to get some of the packing done today.” 

“Ought to pack in an hour! You make hard work 
of everything,” he flopped over. 

In London two weeks, Helen had displayed in the 
sitting-room her bought-on-the-Continent treasures. 
Needlework pictures, snuff boxes, bits of old crystal 
and ivory. These she now collected to pack first. 

“Why can’t you do your packin’ in here?” bel¬ 
lowed Warren, resenting being left alone. 

“I had to get these,” entering, her arms full. 
“Oh, she threw out that tissue-paper,” opening the 
wardrobe. “Now I’ll have to wrap them in news¬ 
paper.” 

“Worryin’ a darn sight more ’bout that packin’ 
than you are ’bout me! Here give me another 
pillow! Heat this thing! Where’s that hot-water 
bag she was to dig up? And where’s Higgins? 
What ’bout that doctor?” 

“If he doesn’t come soon, I’ll call down. There, 
that more comfy?” patiently, putting back the pil¬ 
low he had ordered removed. “Now I’ll heat this.” 

In the bathroom, the water only lukewarm, she 
again resorted to the alcohol tea-kettle. 

“How long’s it take you?” rumbled Warren. 
“What’re you doin’ in there?” 

“I’ll be right in. I have to heat the water.” 

Filling the unwieldy stone jug, the boiling 
stream splashed over. 

“Eh? What’s the matter now?” at her cry of 
pain. 


318 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Clasping her scalded hand, she stumbled into 
the bedroom. 

“What happened? Burn yourself? Bring any 
of that pain-cure?” 

“No, I haven’t a thing,” tremulously. 

“Well, don’t think ’bout it—that’s what you tell 
me. See who that is! Maybe it’s the doctor.” 

The wardrobe-mirror reflected her white face as 
she turned to the door. 

A stiff, pompous Englishman. Silk hat, mono¬ 
cle, morning coat, hair-line trousers, spats, and an 
important black case. 

Helen ushered him into the bedroom. But, intent 
on her smarting hand, she was oblivious to the intro¬ 
ductory questions and brief examination. 

“No temperature?” bristled Warren. “Felt 
feverish all day!” 

“Nothing but a heavy cold,” casing his ther¬ 
mometer. “Our fogs don’t always agree with you 
Americans.” 

“What ’bout this sore throat? What’re you 
goin’ to do for that?” 

“Just a slight irritation. Keep warm and don’t 
overload your stomach. Mostly slops for a day or 
two.” 

“But, see here, doctor, we’re booked to sail Satur¬ 
day. Think I can risk it?” 

“Best thing you could do. The sea air will cure 
that cold.” 

Then, taking up his bag, he glanced at the half- 
packed trunk. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


319 


“If you’re sailing Saturday perhaps you’ll pay 
my fee now.” 

“Certainly. What do I owe you?” brusqued 
Warren. 

“Five guineas.” 

Five guineas? Twenty-five dollars! Helen’s 
amazed indignation nulled the pain in her hand. 

“Give me my wallet!” ordered Warren. “There, 
in my coat.” 

The five crisp pound-notes counted out lacked 
five shillings to make the five guineas. 

“Look in my trouser pocket. Any change 
there?” 

Instead of waiving the change, Sir Harvey waited 
with British impassivity while Helen made up the 
five shillings with sixpences and coppers. 

A formal, “Thank you,” an austere bow, and he 
strode out. 

“Twenty-five dollars!” gasped Helen. “And he 
waited for the last farthing! Why did you pay it? 
Why didn’t you say it was too much?” 

“Soaked us, all right!” giving the pillow an 
irate punch. “Sir Harvey Dring!” with a snort. 
“Guess we paid for the handle. No more British 
doctors for me! Twenty-five bucks to be told to eat 
slops!” 

“Slops? I suppose he meant broths. Dear, that 
was an outRAGEOUS fee! He wasn’t here five 

minutes, and he didn’t even- Oh!” flinching 

with pain as she replaced his wallet. 



320 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Why didn’t you show him that burn? Might’ve 
got somethin’ for our twenty-five.” 

“It couldn’t have happened at a worse time,” rue¬ 
fully, bandaging a handkerchief about her blistered 
wrist. “With all this packing—and waiting on 
you-” 

“Let the maid do the packin’—that’s what she’s 
for. And you don’t have to wait on me—I’ll wait 
on myself. Feel better now. Did me good to get 
stirred up at that fleece-artist. Soakin’ you may be 
part of that high-hatter’s treatment. Cured my 
headache, all right.” 

Sitting up, impatiently he elbowed the pillows 
back of him. 

“Here, fix these right! No, not high enough. 
Get another pillow. Then roll up my bathrobe. 
There, that’ll do. Now my brief case! I’ll check 
up some of those papers. See if my pen’s there— 
vest pocket. No? Then give me yours. Wonder 
you wouldn’t ever fill it! Get a pencil!” 

While Helen fluttered attendance, he spread the 
papers on the bed. 

“Can’t see here—pull back that curtain! Now 
a pad to figure on. Yes, anything’ll do. That 
infernal handkerchief! What the Sam Hill’d I do 
with it? Well, get another. Where’ll I put all 
these? Push up that chair. There, that’s better. 
Now here’s where I tear off some work! What’s 
the matter? Hand still hurt? Well, go lie down. 
Eh? Why can’t you? Haven’t a darn thing to 
do!” 



An Awkward Interview Follows the 
Exposure of a Serious Feminine 
Subterfuge 

“What ’bout that suit you bought in Vienna?” 
Warren was scowling over their declaration. “Got 
that down here?” 

“Why, I’ve almost worn it out! We don’t have 
to declare that,” protested Helen, on her knees 
before her steamer trunk. 

“Have to declare everything! Ought to know 
that by this time. They make allowances for wear. 
What’d you pay for it? Got the bill?” 

“No, but it was awfully cheap. Not quite two 
million kronen .” 

“Why in blazes don’t you keep your bills? Tell 
you that every trip. ’Bout thirty dollars, then?” 
writing it in. 

“Yes, but say worn—much worn.” 

“Now I’ll go down to the lounge and figure this 
out,” gathering up the Custom blanks. “You hustle 
and get this stuff packed ’fore dinner. Five now.” 

Alone, Helen dropped dejectedly on the cluttered 
bed. 

It had been an ideal voyage. A stateroom and 
bath with all the luxuries of the huge Olympic . 
But the day-before-landing was always clouded by 
the dreaded Customs. 


322 


HELEN AND WARREN 


If Warren would only let her make out her own 
declaration! He always insisted upon declaring 
everything—even her antiques! 

“Tea, m’am?” the stewardess entered with a 
tray. “I thought if you were packing—you’d like 
it in here.” 

“Thank you. Where’ll you put it? Oh, you can 
close that trunk.” 

“I brought you some wafers and Dundee cake. 
Would you like anything else, m’am?” with the tip- 
expectant solicitude of the voyage end. 

As Helen sipped her lemoned tea—another 
knock at the door. 

Mrs. Clinton, wife of the wealthy cotton manu¬ 
facturer, who had the de luxe suite at the end of 
the corridor. 

“May I come in?” wedging her “stylish stout” 
through the half-open door. 

“If you can get in,” laughed Helen, pushing 
aside a suitcase. 

“Oh, don’t you loathe this packing? No, don’t 
bother, I can’t stay a moment,” as Helen cleared a 
chair. “I just came to ask a favor.” 

Then, unwrapping a gold-mounted bead bag: 

“I bought this in London for my sister—she’s to 
be married next month. She’ll be at the dock and 
she always hangs over my trunks when they’re ex¬ 
amined. So I wondered if you’d take it in for me?” 

“Why, I’d like to,” Helen was plainly surprised. 
“But Mr. Curtis is so strict about the Customs— 
he makes me declare EVERYthing!” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


323 


“Oh, I’m not asking you to smuggle it! Here’s 
the bill. Ten pounds—about fifty dollars. I think 
the duty’s 35 per cent, on bags—that’s seventeen 
fifty,” counting out the money. “If it’s more— 
let me know.” 

“But if Mr. Curtis has handed in our declara¬ 
tion? He just took it down.” 

“Then you can declare it at the dock—say you 
forgot it. Irene always snoops around my trunks 
—it won’t seem like a wedding present if she sees 
it.” 

“How will I get it to you afterwards?” Helen 
still demurred. 

“Oh, we’re under the same letter—C. I’ll take 
it as we leave the dock. You don’t mind, do you? 
Thank you SO much!” fluttering out. 

Wondering over the incident, Helen proceeded 
with the packing. 

Though they had played bridge with the Clintons 
almost every evening of the voyage, she had never 
quite liked Mrs. Clinton, whose effusiveness seemed 
a little artificial. But her husband was most lik¬ 
able—fine and direct. 

“Still at it?” Warren swung in. “Jove, you’re 
slow!” 

“I’m almost through now. You can put those 
trays in—and shove back that trunk.” 

“Just passin’ the Majestic. No, you can’t see 
her from here,” peering out the porthole. “Come 
up on deck—you stuck in here all afternoon.” 


324 HELEN AND WARREN 

“Wait, I must put this bag away,” opening the 
suitcase 

“Eh? What’ve you got there?” sharply. “Let’s 
see it!” 

“Now it’s nothing I’m trying to smuggle 
through,” resentfully. “It’s Mrs. Clinton’s! 
Here’s the bill—and the duty. I can say I for¬ 
got to declare it.” 

“What’s the big idea? What you got to do with 
it?” 

“A wedding present for her sister—she’ll be at 
the dock. And she’s afraid she’ll see it when they 
examine the trunks.” 

“Huh, got her nerve!” he grunted. “Come on, 
let’s get out—feel like shuffle-board?” 

“Isn’t that someone knocking?” Helen turned to 
the door. 

Mrs. Clinton again. 

“Oh, I forgot to say—if I shouldn’t see you as 
you leave the dock, I’ll send for that tomorrow.” 

Helen’s murmured acquiescence concealed her 
increased surprise. 

“Dear, did you notice how she flushed when she 
saw you? She thought you wouldn’t want me to take 
it. But isn’t it all right, if she’s paying the duty?” 

“Let’s see that bag!” curtly. “Somethin’ darn 
queer ’bout this.” 

“Queer? How, dear?” watching him examine 
it. 

“Give me the scissors!” 

“The scissors?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


325 


“Never mind, this’ll do,” taking out his knife. 

“Warren, what ARE you doing? Why, what—” 

Elbowing her aw T ay, he grimly proceeded to rip 
the satin lining. 

“Thought so! Good hunch!” working out a bit 
of padding. 

His face grew stern as he extricated three glit¬ 
tering stones. 

“DIAMONDS!!” amazed Helen. 

“Fine frame-up for you!” he exploded. 

“I don’t believe it? There’s some mistake. 
She didn’t put*them there!” 

“Who did? The manufacturers? Think they’re 
slippin’ you a thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds 
with a ten-pound bag?” 

“Wait, where’re you going?” clutching his arm. 

“Goin’ to have a little interview with Mrs. Clin¬ 
ton!” shaking her off. 

“Oh, don’t make a scene! I’ll take it back to 
her. Let me-” 

“Now, I’ll handle this!” savagely. “Too darn 
serious! Where’d you be—if the inspectors found 
these?” 

“Why, I’d tell them it wasn’t my bag.” 

“Think they’d believe you? No name on that 
bill. She’d lie out of it. You’d be the goat. 
Thousand dollar fine—or a couple of months in 
jail!” 

Helen shrank back in shocked dismay. 

“And there’s more to it than that! The Customs 
know every valuable stone bought in Europe. 



326 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Jewelers have to register all sales. Her luggage’ll 
be gone over with a fine-toothed comb. That’s why 
she passed ’em on to you.” 

“But, dear, he’ll be there now! Wait and see 
her after dinner.” 

“I’ll see her NOW! Tough on Clinton—but if 
she’s up to shady stunts like this, he ought to know. 
Now don’t you butt in—I’ll settle this!” 

Slamming the door, he strode down the corridor. 

Ignoring his admonitions Helen ran out after 
him. 

She reached the Clintons’ suite just as he entered. 
Grimly intent on his unpleasant errand, he seemed 
not to notice her. 

“Mrs. Clinton here?” was his brusque demand 
when her husband opened the door. 

“Yes, come in, Curtis. Ethel!” he called. Then, 
at Warren’s stern expression, “What is it? Any¬ 
thing wrong?” 

“I’m afraid there is,” bluntly. “Dead wrong!” 

Mrs. Clinton now appeared from the bedroom, 
her face chalky white. 

“Clinton, did you know your wife bought three 
large diamonds in Europe?” 

“Why, what do you mean?” stiffly. “I don’t see 
that it’s-” 

“Any business of mine?” 

“Exactly!” 

“You will see in a moment.” 

From his cupped hand the three gleaming stones 
rolled to the table. 



HELEN AND WARREN 


327 


“Inside the lining of this bag—that Mrs. Curtis 
was asked to take in. Draw your own conclusions! 
I’m putting it pretty raw, Clinton, but I think you 
ought to know. And I’m mighty sore!” 

An excruciating silence. Mr. Clinton, his face 
brick red, was looking down at his wife, now sob¬ 
bing on the couch. 

“I thought we’d had that all out, Ethel. I told 
you I’d pay duty on anything you bought. Pay 
it ten times over rather than have any smuggling!” 

Then, turning to Warren: 

“Curtis, I’d give ten thousand dollars if this 
hadn’t happened. Mrs. Clinton leans backwards in 
honesty in everything else. But when it comes to 
the Customs—well, it’s a curious feminine com¬ 
plex.” 

“Sorry if I put it to you rough,” relented War¬ 
ren. “But I was darn sore.” 

“I don’t blame you. But I’m sure Mrs. Clinton 
didn’t realize in what a serious position she was 
putting Mrs. Curtis.” 

“Well, we’ll all forget it,” abruptly ending the 
awkward interview. 

Helen, a silent, shrinking spectator to the scene, 
slipped out after him, and down the long corridor. 

In their own stateroom Warren stalked the 
limited space, his hands thrust deep into his 
pockets—with him always a gesture of agitation. 

“Oh, I felt so sorry for him—for them both,” 
faltered Helen on the bed, her feet tucked under 
her to give more room for his belligerent strides. 


328 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Damned awkward! She got what was com¬ 
ing to her—but he’s square!” 

“He tried to excuse her. He said-” 

“What’d he call it? ‘Feminine complex?’ 
That’s the highfalutin’ term for plain dishonesty! 
Get that?” turning on her menacingly. “Cheatin’ 
the government’s just as dishonest as cheatin’ an 
individual! Same lack of principle!” 

“You needn’t roar out at me! They weren’t my 
diamonds. I didn’t-” 

“No, but you got a leanin’ that way. If I weren’t 
on to you, you’d sneak through a lot of things. Not 
diamonds—you wouldn’t have the nerve. But you’d 
shave down your declaration to a mighty few 
items.” 

“Dear, I think that’s MOST unfair!” flamingly. 
“I had absolutely nothing to do with this—and 
now you-” 

“Yes, I WANT to rub it in! I want this to be a 
blamed good lesson for you. And on our next 
trip—you’re to keep every bill and come across 
with everything you buy. Savvy? We’ll have no 
‘feminine complex’ along that line in THIS family! 
Now come on up and let’s get a drink ’fore dinner! 
Need it after that session!” 





PART IV 


FAMILY FRICTION 



The Resumption of Family Hostilities 
Glooms Their Sunday Home-Coming 

“Who? . . . Mr. and Mrs. Edwards?” in shrill 
dismay . . . “Why, yes, of course. Bring them 
right up.” 

Flushed and flustered Helen turned from the 
house ’phone. 

“CARRIE!!” 

“Fine! Haven’t seen ’em for two months,” 
Warren was going over the accumulated mail. 

“She might’ve given us time to get unpacked! 
Quick—close those doors!” 

“Now, you don’t have to slick up,” cramming a 
bunch of circulars into the waste-basket. “They 
know we just got in.” 

“Don’t say a THING about presents!” strug¬ 
gling with the folding doors to shut off the bag- 
gage-littered dining room. “I CAN’T get them out 
now!” 

“Why not?” bristled Warren. “Might as well 
give ’em while they’re here.” 

“She’ll want to see everything I brought. Now 
just say we’re NOT unpacked! You go!” as the 
bell rang. “Oh, I hope they haven’t brought 
Bobbie!” 


331 


332 


HELEN AND WARREN 


In her own room, Helen decided not to dress. 
The blue work smock, stressing the untimely intru¬ 
sion, might hasten their departure. 

Voices from the hall. Yes, Bobbie! Shrilling 
above his mother’s staccato. 

After two months in Europe, free from Warren’s 
family, the resumption of polite hostilities seemed 
harder than ever. 

With a fixed smile of welcome Helen now entered 
the library. 

A chorus of over-stimulated greeting platitudes. 

“You’re looking great, Helen!” Lawrence was 
always genuinely friendly. “Hear you did a lot of 
flying. How’d you like it?” 

“I loved it! Like limousining through the 
clouds!” lugging in her pet phrase. “No, I wasn’t 
a bit afraid!” 

“Um-um, I’ve my doubts about that,” shrugged 
Carrie. “I can just see you clutching at Warren. 
Pettie, come away from that window!” 

“No, she was a good sport,” admitted Warren 
at Helen’s you-tell-them glance. “And they handed 
us some dizzy dips on that hydroplane!” 

“You were very foolish to take such risks after 
those horrible accidents between Paris and London. 
Precious, mind Mother! Come away from that 
window! Lawrence, shut that! The other one, 
too.” 

The closing of all windows, lest Bobbie fall out, 
was an unfailing demand of Warren’s sister. One 
of the many irritations of her dreaded visits. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


333 


“Helen, haven’t you put on weight? Don’t do 
that, Pettie! You look stouter.” 

“Only 108,” with flushed resentment, “I weighed 
on the steamer.” 

“Oh, while I think of it—Aunt Amelia’s hav¬ 
ing trouble with her ear. She wants to come in to a 
specialist. Can you have her next week?” 

“Next week?” dismayed Helen. “Why, we 
haven’t a maid—we won’t be-” 

“We’ll have one by that time,” Warren was 
opening a box of cigars. “These’re mild,” passing 
them to Lawrence. 

“Then I’ll tell her it’s all right,” decided Carrie. 
“She won’t stay more than a week. Let that radio 
alone, Precious! Too early for the Bedtime 
Stories.” 

“Aunt Helen, what’d you bring me?” sulked 
Bobbie, still twirling the dials. 

“I haven’t unpacked yet,” evaded Helen, hav¬ 
ing planned to buy his present here. 

“Can’t you do it now? Why, can’t you? Got 
any chocolate cake?” 

“I’m sorry, Bobbie, we just got in last night. 
We’ve nothing in the house.” 

“Whatcha eat for breakfast?” playing with a 
burnt match. 

“We went out for breakfast. Oh, don’t mark 
up Aunt Helen’s table!” 

“Aintcha gonna have no dinner?” 

“We’ll have to go out for dinner. Give Aunt 
Helen that match!” 



334 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“I’m hungry!” straddling a chair arm. “Aintcha 
got no candy? You sure?” 

“Thought I saw a box in my trunk,” broke in 
Warren. 

Her one box of foreign confections had not been 
brought for Bobbie’s greedy consumption. But 
now she must produce it. 

Opening the folding doors only far enough to 
wedge through, before she could close them, Bobbie 
squirmed in after her. 

“Want my present! Why can’t you? What’s 
these? Who stuck ’em on your trunk?” 

“Oh, don’t pull that off!” saving her precious 
“Hotel Hungaria, Budapest” label from his sharp 
scraping nails. “Here’s the candy—now we’ll go 
back.” 

In the library she opened the wooden box 
brought all the way from Italy. 

With shrill glee Bobbie snatched at one of the 
tinfoiled cubes. 

“Oh, I forgot—there’s liqueur in them!” de¬ 
spaired Helen, as a syrupy stream gushed down his 
chin. “You’re getting it on that chair—come 
away!” 

“Like those little chocolate bottles Mrs. Crane 
sent us,” Carrie sampled another as Helen 
wiped the sticky smudge from the linen-shrouded 
chair. 

“Gimme that gold one!” 

“Should he have any more, Carrie? They’re 
full of liqueur 


HELEN AND WARREN 335 

“Not enough to hurt him. Careful, Honeybug, 
don’t get it all over you.” 

“Where’s that cane for Lawrence?” demanded 
Warren. “Get at that, can’t you?” 

“Why, dear, you know I haven’t started to un¬ 
pack!” 

“Now don’t bother,” protested Lawrence, always 
considerate. “No hurry.” 

“I can get that cane! Saw it in my trunk,” War¬ 
ren started up. 

“There’s the bell! You’ll have to go—I’m not 
dressed,” fluttered Helen, welcoming the intru¬ 
sion—anything to divert his raid on the trunks. 

It was Mrs. Thompson, the superintendent’s 
wife, with Pussy Purr-Mew. 

“Is she all right? Yes, I’m sure you took good 
care of her. Don’t, Bobbie, you’ll frighten her!” 
Helen opened the basket. “She’s always nervous 
at first.” 

“Yes, she was so scared when we took her down. 
Wouldn’t eat for two days. Now she’s used to us— 
we hate to give her up.” 

“Oh, she’s lovely and fat!” cuddling her. “Why, 
Pussy Purr-Mew, don’t you know me?” 

Wriggling from Helen’s arms she shot across the 
room. From under the couch her phosphorus eyes 
gleamed wide and terrified. 

“Doesn’t even know you!” shrugged Carrie. 
“Persian cats are so stupid.” 

“Here’s her milk,” Mrs. Thompson took a bottle 
from the basket. 


336 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Oh, thank you, we haven’t any yet. Wait, I’ll 
pay you now. Eight weeks, isn’t it? Dear, have 
you sixteen dollars?” 

“Guess I’ve got that much,” Warren drew out his 
wallet. “But gettin’ through the Customs put a 
dent in this roll.” 

“And you pay two dollars a week for that cat 
every time you go to Europe?” criticized Carrie, 
after Mrs. Thompson’s exit. “Don’t ever say I’m 
extravagant!” 

“Bobbie, you mustn’t tease her,” admonished 
Helen. “She’ll come out.” 

“Started to get that cane!” Again Warren made 
for the dining-room. 

With disconcerting visions of his rumpling 
search, Helen tried to answer Lawrence’s ques¬ 
tions about their Continental flights. 

“I don’t know how high—but we were above the 
clouds. No, we never thought of putting cotton 
in our ears. Yes, all enclosed—just like a lim¬ 
ousine. Oh, awfully cheap—only fourteen dollars 
from Vienna to Budapest! Yes, they fly all over 
Europe—we’re so far behind here.” 

“Well, I dug out a few things,” Warren strode 
back. “Here’s the cane! This the bag you got 
for Carrie?” 

“A bag? And I just bought one!” disparaged 
his sister. 

“Malacca! A beauty!” Lawrence, always ap¬ 
preciative, was admiring his cane. “Just what I 


HELEN AND WARREN 337 

wanted—left mine in a taxi. Carrie, that’s a stun¬ 
ning bag!” 

“No place for change?” depreciatingly, explor¬ 
ing the lining. 

“You can put any little purse in that inside 
pocket,” resented Helen. “We got that in Vienna 
—the Wiener Werk Statte. They make the finest 
leather goods.” 

“Oh, yes, it’s very good looking,” her tone imply¬ 
ing she would rather have had anything else. 

“Nothin’ for me?” whimpered Bobbie, tugging 
at his father’s cane. 

“Why, yes, of course,” propitiated Helen, “but 
we’re not unpacked yet. The next time you come 
—I’ll have it all ready.” 

“That means Aunt Helen will buy you something 
here,” laughed Carrie, cynically. “Cheaper and 
easier than bringing things over. Lawrence, we 
must go! You’ll have to drive slow with that loose 
brake.” 

“Much obliged for this,” flourishing the cane 
as he rose. “It’s a peach!” 

“Leave that alone, Precious! Come, we’re going 
home,” Carrie held out his coat. “What do you 
want? That candy? Well, ask Aunt Helen.” 

But Bobbie, appropriating the box, turned 
shrewdly to his Uncle Warren. 

“Yes, that’s all right, Skeezix,” rumpling his 
hair. “Take it along.” 

“Jackie Wood’s gotta airship! Uncle Warren, 
why didn’t you bring me one?” 


338 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Maybe we did. You’ll see next time you come.” 

“Your cap, Precious? You threw it at that cat 
—there, back of the couch!” 

“Yes, some Sunday soon,” at Lawrence’s invita¬ 
tion, as they waited for the elevator. “Yes, I’ll 
draw up that contract. No, not too busy for that.” 

“No, don’t open it now—you’ve eaten enough. 
Give mother the box. Then I’ll write Aunt Amelia 
she can come next week?” 

“Yes, we’ll put her up,” brisked Warren. “Take 
your hand in, Bobbie. So long!” 

Then, as the elevator shot down, he whirled on 
Helen with a menacing: 

“See here, didn’t you bring anything for 
Bobbie?” 

“It’s absurd to bring toys from Europe—I was 
going to get him something here. But I might’ve 
known Carrie’d rush in the very first day!” 

“Well, she sized you up on that, all right. Now, 
the next time, you bring something for Bobbie— 
something good, too. Cram the trunks with your 
antique junk—never want to bring a thing for my 
family!” 

“Your family!” hysterically. “We’re always 
bringing things for your family. It’s always your 
family! And now we must have Aunt Amelia!” 

“Well, what of it?” as he stalked back into the 
library. “First thing we get home you start chewin’ 
the rag ’bout my folks! Hardly civil to ’em!” 

“Civil? Why, what did I say? The way she 
acted about that bag!” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


339 


“Oh, that’s just Carrie’s way,” clipping a fresh 
cigar. “She appreciated it, all right. And wasn’t 
Lawrence tickled with that cane?” 

“Yes, he’s a dear,” admitted Helen, picking up 
after Bobbie. “But he isn’t your family! Wait 

till Aunt Amelia comes-” 

“Now tune off on Aunt Amelia! You get a maid 
and make her comfortable. What’s that? Twice a 
year? Well, she can come every month if she likes! 
Now I’m fed up with your roastin’ my family— 
they’ll come here whenever they want to! And 
your mug’s goin’ to register welcome! Now that’s 

THAT!” 



Diverting Aunt Amelia’s Dreaded Visita¬ 
tion Proves a Dubious Relief 

“What’s the matter with this spinach?” growled 
Warren. “All grit! Tryin’ to slip me some ground 
glass?” 

“She didn’t half wash it! I told her to put it 
through three waters—but she pays NO attention 
to anything I say.” 

“Shove over that butter. Need somethin’ to 
lubricate this fish. Dry as chips.” 

“And I told her to make a butter sauce. Now 
you see! She spends all her time dolling up,” re¬ 
sented Helen. “Look, dear, she smells the fish,” at 
an importuning meow from Pussy Purr-Mew. 
“Yes, you shall have some.” 

“Trot out the salad now. Can’t eat that spinach 
—enough sand to make concrete. Here, stop 
feedin’ that cat at the table!” 

Answering Helen’s ring, their new, ultra-modern 
maid swung through the pantry door. Her iron- 
tormented hair flaunted the latest bob, and her 
“compact” complexion was heavily applied. 

“Anna, you can bring the salad now. That spin¬ 
ach is so gritty—we can’t eat it. I told you to wash 
it in three waters.” 

“Washed it good as I could,” flouncing out with 
the depleted bread plate. 

340 


HELEN AND WARREN 341 

“Phew, knockout drops!” Warren sniffed at the 
cheap perfume. 

“Isn’t it awful? And she just pours it on! She’s 
going out tonight. Did you notice her make-up? 
If she’d put that time on washing the spinach—■” 

Here Anna swung back with the replenished 
bread plate, and the romaine-tomato salad. 

“Holy Smoke, that’s sour!” spluttered Warren. 
“Where’s the oil?” 

“And it’s vinegar—I told her to use lemon 
juice,” getting the oil cruet from the sideboard. 
“Empty! And I told her to fill it yesterday. Dear, 
I just CAN’T put up with her—she’s impos¬ 
sible!” 

“Then fire her,” scooping out his baked potato. 

“You always say that! What d’you want—the 
salt? There, behind your glass. You know I can’t, 
with Aunt Amelia coming Saturday.” 

“Get another, can’t you?” slathering on the 
butter. 

“I spent two days at the agencies getting her. 
Plenty of waitresses and chambermaids—but you 
just can’t get general houseworkers. Sh-sh, she’s 
coming! Anna, fill this oil cruet. I told you to 
fill it when you did the silver.” 

“I forgot about it,” her tone more defiant than 
apologetic. 

“Oh, she makes me wild!” as the pantry door 
closed after her. “Dear, if I let her go couldn’t you 
write Aunt Amelia we’ve no maid—that she’d be 
more comfortable at a hotel?” 


342 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Now, don’t start on that! We said she could 
come—can’t back out now.” 

“If it were anyone else, I’d let her go and do the 
work myself. But you know how difficult Aunt 
Amelia is! She expects so much—you have to wait 
on her every minute. I just can’t do that and the 
work, too!” 

“Nobody wants you to,” assaulting the hard, dry 
mackerel. “Get another girl.” 

“And break her in by Saturday? Warren, you 
know I can’t!” 

Again Anna appeared, deposited the oil cruet, 
and odoriferously swished out. 

“Just look, she didn’t even wipe it off!” Helen 
exposed the oily ring on the cloth. “That’s the 
way she does everything.” 

“Here,” Warren started up, “I’ll talk to her!” 

“No, no, you’ll only explode—you always do! 
If I must keep her—it’ll make things worse if you 
blow out.” 

“Then stop chewin’ the rag! I’m fed up with 
that wail. What’s in that dish? Brandied peaches? 
Well, shove ’em over.” 

Through the salad, chocolate pudding, and cof¬ 
fee, Helen brooded over the dreaded visit of War¬ 
ren’s aunt. She had written she was coming for 
a week—that meant at least two! 

These frequent, lengthy impositions of his queru¬ 
lous, argumentative Aunt Amelia were Helen’s 
greatest trials. 

With an ample income and no children, there 


HELEN AND WARREN 


343 


was no reason why she should not go to a hotel. 
But she never did. Cheaper to sponge on her 
relatives. 

“Got a paper?” demanded Warren, when after 
dinner he strode into the library. 

“Dear, I told the elevator boy to tell the news¬ 
man-” 

“Just ’round the corner. Couldn’t you see him 
yourself? Been home a week and haven’t even 
ordered the papers!” 

Not a week. Only four days since they landed. 
Canvassing the employment agencies, breaking in 
the new maid, starting the ice, milk, and other 
supplies—besides getting unpacked and settled, 
had crowded Helen’s every moment. 

“Where’re my pipe cleaners?” Warren was rum¬ 
maging through the smoking-stand. “Had a box 
here somewhere.” 

“Oh, I was cleaning out the ice drain! Wait, I 
left them in the kitchen.” 

“Always swipin’ my things! Wish you’d leave 
’em alone.” 

The kitchen all dark! 

Anna through—and off so soon? 

The light switched on exposed the slovenly dis¬ 
order of undue haste. 

The silver not put away, the tea towels not 
washed, the dish cloth a wet wad in the soap tray! 
The oil can left out of the icebox—and the bread 
on the cutting board! 

“No, you can’t be hungry,” as Pussy Purr-Mew 



344 


HELEN AND WARREN 


rubbed ingratiatingly against her. “Your saucer 
empty? Well, I’ll give you some milk.” 

In the overcrowded icebox the milk bottle was 
minus its sanitary top. And those creamed onions 
from last night—everything would smell of them! 
Her good china butter dish—and that greasy bacon 
not even on a plate! 

Taking out the onions, and scraping the butter 
onto a kitchen saucer, she closed the icebox to shut 
out further proofs of Anna’s flagrant carelessness. 

Then, inconsistently, yielding to a suspicious 
urge, Helen opened the oven door. 

Yes, just as she thought. All the greasy pans had 
been shoved in—unwashed! Even the fish broiler! 

This last outrage flaming her smouldering indig¬ 
nation, she dragged out the pans, and put on an 
apron. 

“How ’bout my pipe cleaners?” glowered War¬ 
ren from the door. “What the Sam Hill you doin’ 
out here?” 

“Dear, WHAT d’you think she did? Hid these 
dirty pans in the oven!” 

“Well, what’re you washing ’em for? Chuck 
’em back!” 

“I can’t leave them like this. That fish smells up 
the whole place!” 

“No worse’n that scent she broadcasts! Where’ re 
my pipe cleaners?” 

“Oh, I forgot—I found things in such a mess. 
There, on the icebox. Dear, CAN’T Aunt Amelia 
postpone her visit? If we write her-” 



HELEN AND WARREN 


345 


‘‘Nothing doing! You can’t put her off now. 
She’s goin’ to that ear specialist,” jabbing the 
cleaner through his pipe. “You’re always makin’ 
things hard for yourself. Aunt Amelia’s not much 
trouble.” 

“She’s not?” scouring a burnt pan. “She’s never 
content unless I’m doing something for her. I 
wouldn’t mind if she weren’t so argumentative. 
Oh, I can’t get this off—hand me a knife out of 
that drawer! She challenges everything I say— 
always trying to put me in the wrong.” 

“Oh, that’s just her way. You get sore at 
everything,” now filling his pipe. 

“You can’t smoke that when she’s here! She 
can’t stand a pipe and doesn’t like cigars. She’s 
always complaining about the smoke.” 

“Is, eh? Well, I smoke in my own home when 
I darn please!” 

“There, you see how you bristle when it affects 
you? And she doesn’t dare say much when you’re 
here—but she’s after me all day. Telling me how 
she used to keep house! Warren, I DO think 
Carrie might have her this time!” 

“Couldn’t stay out there if she’s goin’ to that 
specialist.” 

“Carrie could drive her in—only twice a week. 
We’ve had her every-” 

“Now we’ve thrashed that all out. Drop it! 
Well, why d’you get under my feet?” at a hissing 
protest from Pussy Purr-Mew. 

As he strode out, dejectedly Helen resumed her 
dreary task. 



346 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Another half hour before the kitchen was in pre¬ 
sentable order. 

When she returned to the library, Warren was 
writing at the desk. 

“Dear, I’m so tired. I’m going right to bed. 
You don’t mind, do you? I’ve such a hard day 
tomorrow.” 

“Huh, you make everything hard. It’s the way 
you go at it. Well, you can stop worryin’ about 
Aunt Amelia,” taking out an envelope. “I’ve writ¬ 
ten she’d better go to a hotel.” 

“You HAVE?” ecstatically. “Oh, you darling!” 
hugging him. “How’d you say it? Let me read it!” 

“Now look what you did!” elbowing her away. 
“Give me a blotter!” 

As he addressed the envelope, eagerly Helen 
scanned the brief note: 

“Dear Aunt Amelia: 

We’re up against the maid problem. 

Have to fire the one we got and don’t 
know when we’ll land another. Think 
you’ll be more comfortable at a hotel. 

I’ll engage a room and bath at the 
Astor-Ritz. That’s central and near your 
doctor. Don’t worry about the bill—I’ll 
take care of that. You will be our guest. 

Phone us when you get in. We’ll plan 
something for Sunday. 

Affectionately, 


Warren.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 347 

“Pay her hotel bill! Why, Warren, you’re NOT 
going to-” 

“Why not?” bristling. 

“She has plenty of money! Just because she 
hates to spend it-” 

“Now she expected to come here! We can’t 
sidestep without coughin’ up for the hotel. Won’t 
be much.” 

“It won’t? If she doesn’t have to pay for it 
—she’ll run up an awful bill! All her meals in 
her room and all kinds of extras! Dear, DON’T 
send that letter! If you must do something—say 
you’ll pay half. Surely that’s enough!” 

“Not goin’ to piker it to save a few dollars,” 
sealing the envelope with a thump. “Where’re 
your stamps?” 

“Then let her come here,” desperately. “I’ll 
manage somehow. I’ll keep Anna—or do the work 
myself!” 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind! Put up such a 
howl ’bout havin’ Aunt Amelia—now I switch her 
to a hotel you start kickin’ about the expense! 
What’s that? Well, what if she does?” savagely. 
“She’s my aunt and I’m doin’ the digging. Now 
this letter GOES! No, you don’t—I mail it my¬ 
self!” 




Helen’s Indecorous Disposal of Aunt 
Amelia’s Compensatory Gift 

“Nothing but circulars,” Helen glanced over the 
morning mail. “Oh, here’s a letter from Aunt 
Amelia!” 

“What she got to say? Too soft!” grumbled 
Warren, scooping out his eggs. 

“I hope she hasn’t any new ailments,” scanning 
the letter before reading it aloud. 

“ ‘Dear Warren: 

Arrived home all right, but left my 
umbrella. Would you inquire at the 
hotel? Black silk with a straight black 
handle. 

My ear seems better. Not so much 
buzzing. I think the treatments and the 
change did me good. Thank you for 
making me so comfortable at the hotel. 

As Helen loves antiques, I am sending 
an old colored print your Uncle John 
bought when we first married. You can 
have it framed to suit you—the frame 
was hard to send. It will look well over 
that chest in your hall. 

Hope you will find the umbrella. My 
new one—hate to lose it. 

With love to you both, 

Your Aunt Amelia.’ ” 

348 


HELEN AND WARREN 


349 


“Now I got to scout around for that fool um¬ 
brella,” growled Warren, knocking the clogged 
salt-shaker. “Cheaper to buy her one.” 

“The more you do, the more she expects. It’s 
the dampness—try this one. When you’re so busy 
—to ask you to-” 

“Oh, well, I’ll just ’phone the hotel. Now I got 
too much!” 

“I don’t mind salt—take these,” shoving over 
her unopened eggs. “Oh, this must be that print 
—I thought it was a magazine.” 

As Aunt Amelia’s presents were always garish 
atrocities, with dread misgivings Helen slit her 
fork along the tightly wrapped roll. 

A gaudy, crudely colored lithograph. A snow 
scene—a green sleigh drawing up to a red-and- 
green house. The family home-coming—with the 
old folks on the porch. “Thanksgiving” was the 
caption. 

“In the hall! You expect me to hang THIS 
in the hall?” 

“No, that’s pretty bad,” shrugged Warren. 

“Then I don’t have to keep it? I can give it 
away?” remembering past dissensions over Aunt 
Amelia’s unwelcome gifts. 

“Don’t care what you do with it. Chuck it out!” 

“I’d like the old frame for one of my samplers. 
But she never-” 

“Now don’t start on Aunt Amelia! What’s that? 
Quarter of?” at chimes from the hall. “Got an 
appointment at half past,” gulping his coffee. 




350 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Warren off, while Susie cleared the table, Helen 
again viewed the print. 

This year they had been home only a week when 
Aunt Amelia’s latest ailment necessitated a New 
York visit. Not settled, and without a maid, Helen 
had rebelled at having her. So Warren had put 
her up at a hotel as their guest. 

Now, as a compensatory gift, she had sent this 
hideous print! 

In the left-hand corner, in fine old script, was the 
name of the lithographer. 

“Currier & Ives”! That seemed curiously 
familiar. Currier & Ives-? 

Then an illuminating flash. That article in last 
month’s Country Life! 

An upsetting search of the library table pro¬ 
duced the magazine. 

“Antique-itis—The Collectors’ Epidemic.” 

Satirizing the craze for everything old, however 
ugly. The whisky and pickle bottles, and hooked 
rugs were the writer’s special targets. 

“The craze for Currier & Ives prints 
continues. Recently I sat through a sale 
at the Anderson Galleries and saw a 
number of these once cheap lithographs 
bring incredible prices. “Thanksgiving,” 
after spirited bidding, was knocked down 
to a collector for five hundred dollars.” 

Dropping the magazine, with tremulous hands 
Helen again unrolled the print. 



HELEN AND WARREN 351 

“THANKSGIVING!” Five hundred dollars! 


^ j}c >Jc 

At four o’clock that afternoon Helen stood before 
a print shop, just off Fifth Avenue. 

With timorous indecision she gazed at the sport¬ 
ing prints in the window. 

Never before had she approached a shop, except 
as a purchaser. Now with something to sell— 
she had not the courage to enter. 

Again to the corner and back, rehearsing an 
opening speech. 

Absurd to be so sensitive! Other people sold 
things—why not she? 

Flushed and apologetic, she finally entered the 
smart, polished-wood shop. 

“Good afternoon,” the man came forward, 
politely expectant. 

“Do—do you buy old prints?” with deepening 
color. 

“We’re not buying much at present,” curtness 
replacing his suavity. “What kind of prints?” 

Diffidently she offered the roll. His inspection 
was without comment. 

“What do you want for it?” now keenly apprais¬ 
ing her. 

“Why, I—I would like to know what it’s worth.” 

“Have you any others? No? And you don’t 
know what you want for this?” 

“I think one like it brought five hundred at a 
sale,” she ventured. 


352 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“So you know that, do you? Well, that was an 
absurd price—bid up by two collectors. I’ll give 
you eighty—that’s all it’s worth.” 

“Thank you, I’ll think about it,” retreatingly. 

But he did not yield the print. Instead he raised 
his offer to a hundred. Still Helen demurred. 

“No, it belonged to my husband’s aunt—per¬ 
haps he’d rather keep it.” 

“You’ll make a mistake not to sell it now. The 
craze for this Currier & Ives stuff is going off.” 
Then after further depreciating arguments, “Well, 
as I’ve a customer for it, I’ll take it for a hundred 
and fifty.” 

“If the same print sold for five hundred—this 
should be worth three,” amazed at her own aggres¬ 
siveness. “Perhaps I’d better have it sold at 
auction.” 

“Yes, and you might not get fifty dollars. I’ll 
make it two hundred,” flinging it on the counter 
with a take-it-or-leave-it flourish. 

“Thank you, but I wouldn’t care to sell it for 
less than three hundred,” achieving an aloof in¬ 
difference as she re-rolled the print. 

Had she mistaken his eagerness? He was letting 
her go! Almost at the door now—but her pride 
would not let her hesitate. 

She had the door open before he capitulated. 

“All right, I’ll give three hundred,” gruffly. 
“Not worth it—but I’ve a customer who wants 
it.” 

Three hundred in crisp tens and twenties safe 


HELEN AND WARREN 353 

in her handbag, Helen, in a flutter of extravagance, 
took a taxi home. 

Half-past five when she reached the apartment. 

A glance in the kitchen showed Susie peeling 
the pineapple—wastefully! But Helen was too 
affluently joyous to care. 

Her new rust-colored crepe! She would cele¬ 
brate her opulence by dressing. 

“Hello, all dolled up?” when Warren breezed 
in. “What’s on tonight?” 

“Nothing. Can’t I ever dress just for you?” 

“Huh!” skeptically, swinging into his room. 

Tell him now? No, better wait until after din¬ 
ner. This elating news merited his most appre¬ 
ciative mood. 

But when he had finished his salad, and started 
on his pineapple whip, the urge could no longer 
be repressed. 

As always, with theatric instinct, she approached 
her denouement circuitously. 

“Dear, Aunt Amelia stayed almost two weeks 
at the hotel, didn’t she? Twelve days, wasn’t it? 
You never told me what it cost you.” 

“No, and I’ll not tell you now. Why in blazes 
d’you dig that up again?” 

“I’ve a real reason for wanting to know,” re¬ 
straining her exultancy. 

“Well, you can keep on wantin’. Now no more 
harpin’ on that!” 

“Very well then,” elaborately casual, “I’ll keep 
all the three hundred myself.” 


354 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Three hundred what? What the Sam Hill you 
drivin’ at?” 

“Three hundred dollars! That’s what I got for 
that print she sent us.” 

“Eh?” glaring at her. “What’s the idea?” 

“I sold it to a dealer for three hundred dollars,” 
with climactic effect. 

“The hell you did!” 

“If you don’t believe me I’ll show you the 
money.” 

Into her room and back with her purse, bulging 
with crisp new notes. 

“What’re you try in’ to put over? You never 
sold that old eyesore for any three hundred!” 

“That ‘old eyesore’ was a Currier & Ives print. 
One just like it sold at Anderson’s for five hundred. 
I remembered reading about it—and looked it up.” 

“Who’d you trim? Who was fool enough to 
cough up three hundred for that?” 

“A print dealer—here’s his card. I wish now I’d 
asked more.” 

“Huh, you fleeced him plenty. Three hundred 
bones for that old chromo! What ’bout Aunt 
Amelia? She didn’t know it was worth anything 
like that.” 

“Of course not! If she had, she’d never have 
sent it to us.” 

“Well, what’re you goin’ to do about it? Split 
with her?” 

“Why, she gave it to us—she’s given us enough 
awful things! And after you had her at that ex- 


HELEN AND WARREN 355 

pensive hotel for twelve days—and paid all the 
bills! Now don’t say we can’t keep it?” 

“Seems a tricky thing to do,” jerking his napkin 
from Pussy Purr-Mew’s playful claws. “She 
didn’t give it to us to sell.” 

“You said ‘chuck it out’! Now, Warren, you’re 
NOT going to take any absurd attitude about this? 
Surely we’ve done enough for Aunt Amelia! After 
all her visits and impositions-” 

“Oh, all right, have it your own way,” with a 
dismissing shrug. 

“But, dear, I don’t want it all! You take out her 
hotel bill—and with the rest I’ll get a Pembroke 
table for the hall.” 

“Well, the bill was only a hundred and seventy 
—so we’re a hundred and thirty to the good. But 
you pulled that off—I’m not in on it. Go ahead 
and blow it all!” 

“But, dear, I’m not going to get anything for my¬ 
self—just for the house.” 

“Don’t care what you get! It’s a dubious deal 
—and I’ll have nothing to do with it. But Aunt 
Amelia’s got a long credit now! Next time she 
gets her teeth or glasses changed—she stays here 
long as she wants. And there’re to be no flare-ups 
from you! You’re to make her comfortable— 
and keep a cheerful mug. Now just remember 
that!” 



Helen’s Quixotic Impulse Finds a 
Staunch and Unexpected 
Champion 

It was a dingy hardware shop in a shabby side 
street. A dusty assortment of tools and crockery 
cluttered the window. 

But the group of children were not staring at 
the tools nor the enameled saucepans marked 
“49c.” It was at something small, moving— 
wretchedly ALIVE! 

Above a wire trap was a red-lettered sign, 

THE IRON CAT 
Sanitary Mouse-Catcher 
Best on the Market 

In the trap, as a further advertisement, w T ere 
two tiny, emaciated mice. 

Helen would have passed the window comfort¬ 
ably unconscious of its wretched prisoners had not 
a grimy urchin shrilled out: 

“Look! Its nose’s bleedin’!” 

Horrified, Helen stopped. 

The captive mice, crawling ceaselessly back and 
forth, pressed their bruised noses against the cruel 
bars. One, even weaker and more emaciated than 
the other, seemed to look at Helen in piteous mute 
appeal. 


356 


HELEN AND WARREN 


357 


“Oh, how cruel! How cruel!” 

The children glanced up at her indignant out' 
burst, but there was no sympathy in their eyes, 
only a morbid curiosity. 

It was after five—hardly time to get home and 
dress before dinner. And Warren was bringing 
Mr. Jones! But she could not ignore the appeal 
of those helpless mice. 

The indignant color scorching her face, she 
rushed in to the store. 

A man with stubby gray hair and mustache was 
tying up some curtain rods. 

“Those mice!” flamed Helen. “Those wretched 
little mice in that trap! How CAN you keep them 
there?” 

“What’s that to you?” insolently, as he laid out 
some screws for the curtain fixtures. “Ain’t your 
mice, are they?” 

“Oh, but it’s cruel to keep them there without 
food or water!” 

“What of it? What’s a couple o’ mice? That’s 
what traps is for, ain’t they?” 

“You can drown them—but to keep them in 
that window for an advertisement! You’ve no right 
to make anything suffer!” almost in tears. “I be¬ 
long to three animal societies. I’ll-” 

“Go ahead! Report all you want. Nobody’s 
goin’s to bother about a few mice. Ha’past five 
now, I’m closin’ up.” 

“No, no, you can’t keep them there another 
night! I’ll buy them,” opening her purse. “I’ll 



358 HELEN AND WARREN 

give a dollar a piece.” Then, at his sneer, “Five 
dollars!” 

“Don’t want your money and don’t want you 
tellin’ me my business!” 

“I’ll get a policeman. I’ll have you arrested for 
cruelty to animals!” 

He was at the door now, holding it open as he 
menacingly waved her out. 

Helen flew down the street—three blocks before 
she found an officer. 

“I’m directin’ the traffic,” to her breathless ap¬ 
peal. “I can’t leave for a couple o’ mice.” Then, 
more kindly, “Call up the Animal Society.” 

“He’ll be gone before they get there. It means 
another long night of torture, without food or water, 
for those wretched little things!” 

“Sorry, ma’am, I can’t do nothin’,” dismissingly 
turning his back. 

Five after six! A clock in a dairy lunch brought 
a panicky realization of the time. 

“Quick as you can, please!” to the driver as 
she halted a taxi. 

In the cab, she could no longer keep back the 
brimming tears. She tried to reason—to tell her¬ 
self it was foolish and useless to get so worked 
up. 

Then, suddenly, she realized it was Saturday! 
Those suffering, helpless mice would be there with¬ 
out food or water until Monday! 

It was twenty minutes after six when the taxi 
drew up at the apartment. 


HELEN AND WARREN 359 

The elevator was starting up as she entered the 
hall, but her excited ring brought it back. 

Stepping in, she confronted Warren and Mr. 
Jones! 

Under the strong lights of the white-mirrored 
car, she was painfully conscious of her reddened 
eyes and tear-stained face. 

“What’s wrong?” was Warren’s abrupt greeting. 
“What’s happened?” 

“I—I’ll tell you when we get in. I’m sorry, Mr. 
Jones, I’m so late.” 

“I hope nothing’s happened to distress you?” 
solicitously. 

“Oh, it was so cruel! Two wretched little mice 
in a shop window—shut up without food or water, 
to advertise a trap! But you’ll only laugh at me,” 
with passionate rebellion, “you’ll say they’re just 
mice!” 

“I’ll not,” Mr. Jones broke in quickly. “Where 
is this place?” 

Grateful for his sympathy, Helen, half sobbing, 
told of the pitiful condition of the mice, and her 
frantic, futile efforts to release them. 

“No sense getting all worked up about it now!” 
scowled Warren, trying to check her emotionalism 
before his guest. “If the place’s shut up, nothing 
can be done until Monday. I’ll dust around there 
then.” 

“All that time without water! And the hot sun 
on that window tomorrow!” 

“Well, I’ve brought H. V. to dinner,” sharply. 
“Cheerful reception you’re handing him!” 


360 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Oh, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll see to dinner right 
away.” 

“Don’t hurry, Mrs. Curtis. There’s something 
I forgot at the hotel. I’ll have to get a note off. 
Curtis, will you ’phone for a messenger?” 

As Mr. Jones sat down at the desk, Helen, thank¬ 
ful for the note that would help bridge the wait for 
dinner, rushed out to inspect the table. 

“I’ve got everything ready but the sauce for the 
artichokes,” announced Susie. “I didn’t know 
whether you wanted melted butter or Hollandaise.” 

“Melted butter will do. I wanted to fix that my¬ 
self but I was detained. This candle’s broken—get 
another, and these napkins don’t match the 
cloth.” 

In her own room, with a flurried haste, she 
slipped into a dinner gown. 

At the table she was grateful for the shaded 
candles, for in spite of cold water and powder, her 
face was still tear flushed. 

The hors d’ceuvre, the tomato bisque soup, and 
broiled sweetbreads were delicious, but Helen could 
hardly swallow past the lump in her throat. 

She could feel Warren’s stern displeasure. 
Later he would fume out at her for her “maudlin 
sympathy” and for making a “scene.” 

While they talked of the Western newspapers 
that Mr. Jones controlled, Helen could think only 
of the starved, thirst-tortured mice. Must they beat 
their bruised bodies against those wires until Mon¬ 
day morning? 


HELEN AND WARREN 


361 


Did Nature provide no humane anaesthetic? Was 
there no merciful limit to what a helpless animal 
could be made to suffer? 

“Mustn’t let it affect your appetite, Mrs. Curtis,” 
sympathized Mr. Jones. 

“Oh, I had a very late lunch,” resorting to that 
ever convenient lie. 

“Helen’s dippy about animals,” shrugged War¬ 
ren. “She’s forever picking up tramp cats and dogs. 
That’s all right—but I draw the line at mice.” 

“They suffer just the same! If they must be 
killed, catch them in some humane way and drown 
them. But to torture them needlessly-” 

“Now, don’t start on that again,” sternly. Then, 
to Mr. Jones, “What about the Associated Press 
Service? Your contract cover all your papers?” 

The discussion of News Services and Syndicates 
lasted through the dinner. 

They were having coffee in the library when 
Susie announced: 

“Man at the door to see Mr. Jones!” 

“Yes, my chauffeur. I sent for him.” 

At this, Susie ushered in a sturdy youth, carry¬ 
ing a small square package. 

“Have any trouble, Barker?” 

“Not much, sir.” 

“Good! That’s fine! You needn’t wait.” Then 
turning to Helen, “Mrs. Curtis, this is something 
for you.” 

“For me?” wonderingly, as he carefully re¬ 
moved the paper. 



362 


HELEN AND WARREN 


With the first glimpse of black enameled wires, 
Helen KNEW! 

“For the love of Lulu!” gasped Warren, as the 
paper fell from the mouse trap, exposing its piti¬ 
ful captives. “How in blazes did you pull that off?” 

“When Mrs. Curtis mentioned the address, I’d 
a hunch the man lived over the shop, so I sent 
that note to Barker. Told him to bully, bribe—to 
get those mice anyway, but to GET ’EM!” 

“Well, I’ll be blowed! You newspaper men 
know how to put a thing over. Hold on,” as Helen 
started out with the trap. “What’re you going to 
do? Drown ’em? Here, I’ll do it. You’ll get all 
upset.” 

“No, no, they’ve suffered enough. I’m going 
to put food and water on the pantry floor—and let 
them out!” 

“Let me help you.” Mr. Jones took the trap 
from her. “Poor little devils! So weak they can 
hardly crawl.” 

At any other time Helen would have been discon¬ 
certed at so prominent a man pottering around in 
her pantry. But now, intent only on her humane 
purpose, she placed water and crumbs under the 
sink while Mr. Jones gently opened the trap. 

Then they stood back and watched. 

For several moments the mice huddled against 
the bars, their wee, thin bodies still palpitating 
with fear. 

Then, thirst driven, they crawled out on the edge 
of the saucer. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


363 


“Sh-sh,” whispered Helen, as Warren swung in 
from the dining-room. “Don’t frighten them. 
Come, let’s leave them alone.” 

“Of all the fool stunts!” he grunted, as they went 
back to the library. “Fatten ’em up for Pussy 
Purr-Mew?” 

“Oh—oh, I forgot about her!” excitedly. 
“Where is she?” 

“I shut her in your room. Better keep her there 
until your pets make a getaway. But you two are 
bum sentimentalists. What’s to prevent that man 
from putting another pair in his shop window?” 

“They won’t stay there long,” grinned Mr. 
Jones. “If the Humane Society can’t do anything, 
we’ll get the newspapers after him. I’ll have that 
brute so written up—we’ll run him out of business! 
How about that, Mrs. Curtis?” 

Forgetful of everything but their common love 
for animals, Helen glowed a rapturous: 

“Oh, I’d like to HUG you!” 

And he twinkled back a jovial: 

“You may!” 


Family Greed Intrudes upon the Equit¬ 
able Division of Aunt Sarah’s Effects 

“Dear, there’re only three things I really want 
—the hall clock, the sewing-table upstairs, and that 
small Kashmir rug in the back parlor.” 

“I don’t know about that sewing-table,” Warren 
steered her over a muddy crossing. “Think Carrie 
said something about wanting that.” 

“She has one!” protested Helen. “It’s just be¬ 
cause she knows I want it.” 

“Now, if you two get to scrapping—I’ll send the 
whole lot to auction!” 

“But Carrie has so much room! She can take 
some of the big things.” 

“Well, here we are,” turning up the steps of an 
old brownstone house. 

It had been three months since Warren’s Great- 
Aunt Sarah had died. He was one of the execu¬ 
tors, and her will stipulated that he and his sister 
Carrie should select what articles they desired, 
before her household effects were sold at auction 
for the benefit of an Old Ladies’ Home. 

Knowing Carrie’s proclivity for getting the best 
of everything, Helen was wondering just how their 
selections would be made. 

“Dear, don’t you think the fairest way would be 
to choose in turns?” 

“Any way’ll suit me. Good afternoon, Mary,” 
364 


HELEN AND WARREN 


365 


as an elderly maid, who had been with Aunt Sarah 
for years, opened the door. “Has Mrs. Edwards 
come yet?” 

“Yes, Miss Carrie was here this mornin’ goin’ 
over the house,” ushering them into the long 
gloomy parlor. “Said she’d be back at four to 
meet you.” 

Helen had not been in the house since the fu¬ 
neral, and now shudderingly she glanced into the 
back parlor where Aunt Sarah had lain in state. 
The air seemed still heavy with the flowers that 
had covered the coffin. 

“One of us’ll have to take those family por¬ 
traits,” announced Warren. 

“Dear, we can’t! Where could we hang them?” 

“Well, if Carrie won’t, we’ll have to. We can’t 
let ’em go to auction.” 

Old oil portraits would have been welcome, but 
these were horrible crayon liknesses of Aunt 
Sarah and Uncle John in ornate gilt and velvet 
frames. 

Everything in that long dismal front-parlor was 
impossible—neither antique nor modern. The 
walnut parlor suite, nailed-down carpet, and 
“Rogers Group” on its onyx stand, were all of the 
hideous mid-Victorian period. 

The top of an ebony piano and a corner “what¬ 
not” were littered with “cabinet” photographs, a 
plush album, gilded horseshoe, hand-painted 
plaque of water-lilies, shell boxes, and other atro¬ 
cious bric-a-brac. 


366 


HELEN AND WARREN 


The furnishings in the back parlor were even 
more hopeless. The mantel, with its ball-fringed 
lambrequin, held some wax flowers under glass, a 
painted conch-shell, and a large photograph of 
Aunt Sarah and Uncle John, taken on their wedding 
trip and framed with gilded pine cones. 

Over the mantel hung the inspirational motto 
“No Cross—No Crown.” By the grate was a 
china spittoon wreathed with moss-roses. 

Flanking the center marble-top table were two 
large “spring” rockers, their plush backs and arms 
protected by crocheted “tidies.” 

“Dear, there isn’t a THING here we can use,” 
murmured Helen. 

“Yes, it’s pretty bad. Won’t bring enough at 
auction to pay to move it.” 

Helen thought of the “Bad Taste” exhibition held 
last winter by a group of humorously-inclined 
artists—“Horrors of the Awful Eighties” they had 
called it. But it had been no worse than this. 

Though she had hardly known this austere, re¬ 
cluse great-aunt of Warren’s, yet her sense of re¬ 
spect restrained her critical comments. 

The dining-room was laid with the same Brussels 
carpet of cabbage-rose design that covered both 
the front and back parlors. 

On the cumbersome black walnut sideboard were 
a “castor,” a ponderous silver-plated water set with 
a swinging pitcher, and a glass cake stand. Fish, 
game, and fruit pictures in ornate frames adorned 
the walls. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


367 


“Here’s some good table-linen,” Helen had 
opened the lower part of the sideboard. “We could 
use that. And the bed-linen—there ought to be 
some fine old linen sheets. Let’s go upstairs now 
—there’s nothing down here.” 

Up the carpeted, brass-rodded steps, and they 
entered the large “spare” room. 

“Oh, I’d love to have this quilt,” Helen smoothed 
the patch-work quilt on the heavy walnut bed. “And 
here’s that sewing-table—I DO want this!” 

The Colonial mahogany sewing-table, with its 
simple dignified lines, seemed to shrink from the 
surrounding atrocities of the later Victorian pe¬ 
riod. 

But the crowning monstrosity stood on a jardin¬ 
iere-stand in the corner. 

When Helen had first seen it, on her one duty 
call on Aunt Sarah, she had been almost convulsed. 
Even now there came an irrepressible giggle. 

“Yes, that’s pretty awful,” grinned Warren. 

It was a bronze Venus de Milo, the familiar 
half-draped, armless figure, but with the astound¬ 
ing addition of a small round nickel clock in the 
exact center of her nude abdomen! 

“Dear, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen!” 

“Guess we’ll have to smash that! We can’t let 
that come up at auction. Here’s Carrie, now!” 

“Am I late?” Warren’s sister breezed in. “I 
stopped at the cleaner’s. Have you been through 
downstairs? Did you make a list of what you 
wanted?” 


368 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“I didn’t know we should,” Helen had a dis¬ 
quieting premonition of Carrie’s plan. 

“Well, these four things are all I want. Fve 
jotted them down, for I have to run along—some 
errands to do before I go out on the 5:40.” 

With heightened color, Helen glanced at the four 
items on Carrie’s list: 

Hall clock 
Sewing-table 

Kashmir rug in back parlor 
Table and bed linen 

“Huh,” was Warren’s grunted comment, “you’re 
a good picker, Carrie!” 

“Well, if that’s all I want and I’m willing for 
you to have everything else in the house—surely 
that’s fair.” 

“You know those are the only things either of us 
want,” flushed Helen. “The only fair way is to take 
turns in choosing.” 

“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Helen, but 
you weren’t even mentioned in Aunt Sarah’s will— 
just Warren and I.” 

“Now if there’s any scrapping,” broke in War¬ 
ren sternly, “I’ll send the whole lot to auction— 
and you can buy in what you want.” 

“When we can have them for nothing?” shrilled 
Carrie. 

“Then take turns in choosing. Helen’s dead right 
about that.” 

“Oh, very well, if you’re so insistent about it— 


HELEN AND WARREN 


369 


but it seems so silly.” Then, with covetous haste, 
“I’ll take the sewing-table.” 

“All right,” Warren noted it down on an en¬ 
velope. “Now Helen?” 

“The hall clock,” resenting Carrie’s calm ap¬ 
propriation of first choice. 

“That grandfather’s clock! Where on earth will 
you put it?” demanded Carrie. “No room in your 
hall—and it’s exactly what I want for mine.” 

“Then I’m perfectly willing to take the sewing- 
table instead.” 

“But I want that for my guest-room. Aunt Sarah 
would want me-” 

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” scowled War¬ 
ren. “Make your choice and stick to it. Now, go 
ahead—you have the table and we have the clock.” 

“But you haven’t any place to put the clock!” 
contended his sister. 

“You needn’t worry about that. Let’s get on 
with this. What’s next?” 

“I’ll take the bed and table linen!” tartly. 

“Why, Carrie, I don’t think those ought to go 
together,” protested Helen. 

“Oh, let it go,” shrugged Warren. “Fire away, 
Helen.” 

“That Kashmir rug in the back-parlor—there 
isn’t much choice now.” 

“Sorry, but Aunt Sarah practically gave me 
that rug long ago.” 

“You’re laying it on pretty thick, Carrie,” 
grunted Warren. 



370 HELEN AND WARREN 

“But Helen’s purposely asking for the things on 
my list!” 

“That isn’t true! Warren, weren’t those the very 
things I selected?” 

“Now, you’ll not drag me into this. It’s disgrace¬ 
ful the way you two are rowing over Aunt Sarah’s 
things. Give Carrie the rug if she wants to hog it. 
What d’you want instead?” 

“I suppose that quilt on the spare-room bed,” 
resignedly. 

“Why, that goes with the bed-linen,” exclaimed 
Carrie, sharply. 

“Bed-linen means just sheets and pillow-cases. 
But take the quilt, and anything else you want!” 
flared Helen. “I’m quite through!” 

“Now, see here,” cut in Warren. “What I want 
to know is—who’s going to take those family por¬ 
traits in the parlor?” 

“Those awful crayons? Not ME!” snapped 
Carrie, emphatically. 

“Look here, we can’t let them go to auction. Let’s 
take one apiece.” 

“You can take both of them. Helen’s so crazy 
about ancestral portraits that she bought one and it 
turned out to be Benjamin Franklin!” laughed his 
sister maliciously. “Here you can have two bona- 
fide ones for nothing.” 

“All right, we’ll take ’em,” muttered Warren, 
grimly. “We’ll hang ’em somewhere—in the 
maid’s room if we can’t find any other place.” 

“Hard enough to keep a maid without inflicting 


HELEN AND WARREN 


371 


on her those montrosities,” shrugged Carrie. 
“Well, I must hurry,” glancing at her wrist watch. 

“Hold on, if we take the portraits, you’ve got to 
take that album and those family photographs.” 

“Clutter up my house with that junk? Really, 
Warren, you’re asking too much. Now, I MUST 
go! Tell Mary to have my things ready—I’ll come 
in Monday and take them home in the car,” as she 
ran down the stairs. 

“And you say Carrie isn’t selfish!” flamed Helen, 
when the front door banged. 

“She certainly put it over this time. But she 
paid more attention to Aunt Sarah than we ever 
did—guess she thought she had more claim.” 

“You’re always trying to excuse her!” 

“Well, I wasn’t going to scrap over a few old 
hand-me-downs. Come on, we’re through here,” 
Warren started downstairs. “Let’s get on home.” 

Out in the soft spring dusk, Helen, with hot re¬ 
sentment, brooded over her sister-in-law’s greed. 
To insist on the sewing-table when she had one— 
and to take that quilt with the bed linen! And the 
way she had claimed that rug! 

“Glad that job’s over,” grunted Warren. “I’ve 
been dreading it. Now, there’s one thing certain 
—when we cash in there’ll be no rowing over our 
junk. Everything goes to auction. Let ’em bid for 
it! That’ll put the kibosh on any of ’em that want 
to hog the whole show. That’s the only way to 
squelch these rotten family squabbles!” 


Warren is Caustically Unsympathetic 
Over His Sister’s Tragic Loss 

“Bobbie, you mustn’t do that! You’ll ruin Aunt 
Helen’s nice floor. It’s just been waxed. Now 
look at those marks!” 

With impish defiance Bobbie took a final running 
slide—his heels leaving disfiguring streaks on the 
polished floor. 

“Why don’t you play with your crayons?” per¬ 
sisted Helen. “I thought you were going to draw 
me a house.” 

“I’m hungry! When you goin’ to have dinner?” 
scrambling up on the piano bench. 

“In just a little while, now. But it’s not dinner 
—we have supper Sunday evenings.” 

“Here, can that racket!” Warren glowered over 
his paper as Bobbie ran a pencil along the piano 
keys. “Where’s Carrie? Why don’t she look 
after this youngster?” 

“She has a headache—she went in my room to 
lie down.” 

Wearily Helen stooped to gather up the scat¬ 
tered crayons. One had been stepped on and ground 
into the rug. 

All day she had been picking up after Bobbie. 
How she dreaded these Sunday visits of Warren’s 
sister and her incorrigible child! 

“Helen, didn’t you find something of mine in the 
372 


HELEN AND WARREN 373 

bathroom?” Carrie, flushed and flustered, appeared 
at the door. 

“Why no, what was it? Not your rings?” 

“No, it—something else I left on the washstand. 
Maybe Nora found it—I’ll ask her,” hurrying out 
to the kitchen. 

“What’d she lose?” Warren reached for another 
paper. 

“She didn’t say,” Helen was turning down the 
rugs Bobbie had kicked up. 

A moment later Carrie dashed back, her anxiety 
unabated. 

“Bobbie, have you been in the bathroom? Did 
you see anything that belonged to Mother on the 
washstand?” 

“I ain’t seen nothing,” trying to dislodge Pussy 
Purr-Mew from her refuge under the couch. 

“What’d you lose?” demanded Warren. “Why 
all the mystery?” 

“Well, it’s—it’s my bridge, if you must know!” 
reddening. 

“Your bridge?” 

“My removable bridge. It hurt me so, I took it 
out before I lay down.” 

“Oh, your false teeth,” he grinned. “Why in 
blazes didn’t you say so?” 

“They’re no more false than that bridge you 
have,” bristled his sister. “But they’re more sani¬ 
tary. I can take them out and wash them—just two 
teeth with a gold band. I’m positive I left them in 
the bathroom!” 


374 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Well, we haven’t swiped ’em. I’m pretty well 
satisfied with the kind that stays in.” 

“You needn’t joke about it,” hotly. “They cost 
sixty dollars and now if they’ve been knocked off 
and broken-” 

“Where’d you have ’em last? Maybe you 
sneezed ’em out.” 

“You sure you left them in the bathroom?” 
asked Helen, ignoring Warren’s irrelevancy. 
“Maybe you laid them on the dresser. Wait, I’ll 
come help you look.” 

But a thorough search of Helen’s room and the 
bath failed to reveal Carrie’s missing teeth. 

“You sure you had them? You know they don’t 
show unless you laugh—you might have left them at 
home.” 

“I might—but I didn’t!” snapped Carrie. “Don’t 
you suppose I know whether I had them or not? 
They hurt me in the car as we drove in. Heavens, 
the dust back of this dresser! Don’t you ever 
move it out?” 

“Not every week,” flushed Helen. “One of the 
legs is wobbly.” 

“That’s your antique furniture—always com¬ 
ing to pieces! Thank goodness, I haven’t the craze 
for such junk—wouldn’t have it as a gracious 
gift!” 

“Well, Carrie, criticizing my furniture won’t 
help find your teeth. Did you take them out be¬ 
fore you lay down? Could they be anywhere about 
this couch?” 



HELEN AND WARREN 


375 


“You can look,” ungraciously. “But I KNOW I 
left them in the bathroom!” 

“What’s happened now?” dismayed Helen at the 
sudden turmoil from the library. 

“Look what that brat did!” roared Warren as 
they rushed in. 

“Aunt Helen said draw a picture of a house,” 
whimpered Bobbie. 

On the white enameled baseboard was a blue- 
crayoned house, the red chimney and black curl¬ 
ing smoke extending up on the wall paper. 

“The woodwork can be washed—but it’ll never 
come off the paper,” wailed Helen. 

“Nonsense! Just rub it with a piece of bread,” 
instructed Carrie. “I took it off our dining-room 
that way.” 

“If you’d given him a good thrashing then,” ex¬ 
ploded Warren, “he wouldn’t have done it again.” 

“He didn’t mean to be naughty, did you, Pre¬ 
cious?” defended his mother, straightening his 
sailor collar. “His Aunt Helen told him to draw a 
house.” 

Returning from the pantry with a piece of bread, 
Helen anxiously attempted to erase the chimney. 
Only part of it came off, leaving an ugly smudge. 

“That’ll never be seen,” shrugged Carrie. “Just 
move the couch a little—that’ll hide it.” 

“Carrie, I think the least you can do when you 
bring Bobbie here, is to keep him from being de¬ 
structive.” 

“What do you expect from a child of his age? 


376 HELEN AND WARREN 

They have to give expression to their creative im¬ 
pulses.” 

“Creative impulses!” snorted Warren. “I’ll ex¬ 
press some of my impulses in a minute. Express 
’em with a slipper where they’ll do the most good!” 

“Well, that wall paper isn’t as important as my 
teeth! You don’t seem to realize they cost sixty 
dollars—besides all the bother of having them 
fitted. All you’re thinking about is that spot on 
your wall!” 

“Supper’s ready,” announced Nora from the 
doorway. 

“Got any jelly cake?” Bobbie scampered ahead 
to the dining-room. 

“I’m not going to eat now,” objected Carrie. 
“I’ll have another look first.” 

“You come eat your supper,” scowled Warren, 
always impatient at having a meal delayed. “You 
can look afterwards.” 

“One can’t lay a thing down here that it doesn’t 
vanish. Last time I lost my fountain pen—and 
never did find it.” 

“Well, nobody’s going to snitch your false teeth, 
Carrie. We’re all supplied with the kind that stay 
in. Ha-ha, even Pussy Purr-Mew can prove an 
alibi,” as a pink-mouthed yawn exposed a full set 
of feline teeth. 

“That’s right—make all the cynical remarks 
you can. If I must have bridged teeth, I prefer to 
have them sanitary—so I can take them out and 
clean them.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


377 


“What if you should swallow ’em? Be a pretty 
expensive meal. What d’you do with ’em at night? 
Put ’em in a glass of water by the bed? Well, if 
it’s all the same to you, I’d rather have my sixty 
dollars anchored in.” 

“We’ll look again after supper,” propitiated 
Helen, as Carrie, glaring at her brother, flung into 
her chair at the table. “I don’t like to make Nora 
late—she wants to get off this evening.” 

“I suppose Nora’s getting off is more important 
than anything else,” was Carrie’s acid remark as 
she shook out her napkin. 

“What’s them?” demanded Bobbie. 

“Tomato preserves.” Helen adjusted the tray 
cloth under his plate. “But you must have your 
bread and milk first.” 

“No, not that piece,” objected Carrie sharply, as 
Warren helped her to the cold ham. “You know I 
never eat any fat. No, Bobbie, you can’t have 
that now. Here, let Mother butter your bread.” 

The air charged with discord, the excellence of 
the cold ham, salad, and hot tea biscuits was unap¬ 
preciated. 

“Oh, Bobbie, don’t wipe your hands on the nice 
clean tablecloth. Oh, what dirty hands! You 
should never come to the table without washing.” 

“Helen, you’re always nagging at him,” resented 
Carrie. “You don’t give him a minute’s peace. 
There’s nothing so bad for a child as to be continu¬ 
ally hounded with ‘Don’t do this,’ and ‘Don’t do 
that’.” 


378 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Huh, if he’s a specimen of the right way to 
raise a child—deliver me! Now see here, young 
man, you march yourself out and scrub those 
hands!” ordered Warren. “Use soap. No, don’t 
you go with him,” as Carrie started up. “Let him 
wait on himself. When I was his age-” 

“Yes, you were a model child, weren’t you?” 
sniffed his sister. 

“When I wasn’t I got a good walloping. That’s 
what he needs!” 

Sullenly Bobbie squirmed down from his chair 
and trudged into the bathroom. 

Helen listened, vaguely uneasy. She was never 
certain of what mischief Bobbie might get into if 
left alone. 

“Look! Look what I found!” He dashed back 
holding up a towel. 

“Oh, my—my teeth!” gasped Carrie, snatching 
the towel. “I left them on the washstand—and 
they caught on this fringe!” 

“Might’ve caught on anything,” growled Warren. 
“Why the Sam Hill don’t you have ’em fastened in 
your head. Then you know where they are. You’re 
too blamed careless to have detachable teeth. Now 
stick ’em in—and come finish your supper.” 

“I don’t see anything humorous about it,” glared 
Carrie. “It’s very poor taste to make a joke of 
everything,” flouncing into the bathroom to replace 
her dental accessories. 

“Dear, don’t tease her—don’t say anything 
more,” urged Helen. “She’s furious already.” 



HELEN AND WARREN 


379 


But when his sister swished haughtily back to 
the table, her flushed face freshly powdered, War¬ 
ren sliced another wedge of ham which he deposited 
on her plate. 

“Now you’ve got your full set of grinders—guess 
you can make away with that. But you take my tip 
and have ’em riveted in! May not be so sanitary, 
but it’s a darn sight safer. You won’t be losing 
’em all over the place—keeping the whole family 
in an uproar hunting for your blooming molars!” 


Warren’s Silk Hat Falls a Victim to 
Helen’s Insatiable Economy 

With an ever-convenient hairpin, Helen opened 
the last number of her favorite home monthly. 

Ignoring the insipid pretty-girl cover, she 
scanned the illustrations of “His Butterfly Wife,” 
the new three-part saccharine serial. Then on to 
“What Fashion Dictates,” demonstrated by two 
pages of slim hipless figures. 

Hastily glancing through “The Home Deco¬ 
rator,” “Wholesome and Economical Dishes,” and 
“Easy Desserts for the Young Housewife,” Helen 
turned eagerly to the last department, “Economical 
Hints for the Home.” 

The suggestions this month were most alluring. 
“A New Use for Old Hot Water Bags,” “Your 
Burnt-ouJ Electric Light Bulbs Make Excellent 
Darning Balls,” “Save Your Used Phonograph 
Needles to Clean Bottles.” 

It was the last item that interested Helen most: 

“Your husband’s old silk hat will make 
a beautiful handbag. Great care must 
be taken in removing the material. It is 
pasted over the block and must be pulled 
off gently without tearing. Just the shape 
for a bag, it needs only to be lined and 
mounted.” 


380 


HELEN AND WARREN 381 

“Dear, just a moment, do listen to this,” reading 
it aloud. 

“Um-um,” grunted Warren, without looking up 
from the bank book he was balancing. 

“You bought that new silk hat in London—you’ll 
never wear your old one. Can’t I-” 

“Go ahead, I don’t want it,” curtly. “Thought 
you’d given it away.” 

“I didn’t know anyone to give it to. The elevator 
boy doesn’t need a silk hat. It’ll make a wonderful 
bag! I’ll get it down right now.” 

A rainy evening with Warren working on his 
books was an ideal time for just such a homey task. 

Not daring to disturb him to get down the hat, 
Helen dragged the stepladder chair to the hall 
closet. Even then the top shelf was beyond her 
reach, but with his cane she poked down the high 
round box. 

Yes, it WOULD make a wonderful bag! Ex¬ 
ultantly she held up the gleaming silk hat. That 
satiny plush was the finest texture. 

“Dear, it looks so new:—it seems a pity to cut it 
up,” smoothing the glossy surface as she ran into 
the library. 

“No use to me,” scowling over a line of figures. 
“What do I want with two silk hats?” 

“It’s awfully good-looking on you,” playfully 
setting it on his head. “You look like Lord Some¬ 
body in an English play,” viewing him admiringly. 

“Here, stop your monkeying! Get busy and 
don’t bother me.” 



382 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Bringing in her sewing basket, Helen settled by 
the library table. But even with the scissors in her 
hand, she hesitated to cut into that lustrous, expen¬ 
sive hat. 

Why had he bought another when this looked 
so new? But he wore a high hat so little, the shape 
went out of style. 

Compared to the mercurial changes in feminine 
millinery, men’s hats were most stable. Yet as 
Warren had had this before they were married, it 
must be passe now. 

Determinedly she thrust her scissors under the 
band. It was not gros-grain ribbon as on a derby. 
It was broadcloth—a band of dull-finished broad¬ 
cloth to bring out the sheen of the hat. 

“It does seem a shame!” her scissors still poised. 
“I wonder if there isn’t someone we could give it 
to?” 

An impatient snort from Warren overcame her 
reluctance. Ruthlessly, she ripped off the broad¬ 
cloth band. 

“There, you can have that to play with!” drap¬ 
ing it around Pussy Purr-Mew, who sat on the 
table gravely watching the work of demolition. 

Next, the scissors pried up the edge of the fine 
silk plush. Firmly pasted over the block, it took 
half an hour to peel it off. 

“Look, dear! I got it all off without tearing it 
once. See, it’s just the shape of a bag. And this 
white satin isn’t a bit soiled!” examining the inside 


HELEN AND WARREN 383 

of the now denuded hat. “Pm going to use that for 
the lining.” 

“Sixty-three, seventy-one, eighty, eighty-seven,” 
Warren, adding aloud, sternly rebuked her inter¬ 
ruption. 

Ripping out the inner band, its faint leather 
odor and perforated initials, “W. E. C.,” brought 
back a thrilled memory. 

It was the first time he had called to take her to 
the theater. In love with him even then, as he 
waited in the drawing-room, she had paused at the 
hall table to flutter over his hat with its impres¬ 
sive initials. She had even sniffed at the leather 
band and at the cigary fragrance of his gloves. 

The band now ripped out, she gazed at it wist¬ 
fully. It was such soft, lovely leather—perhaps 
she could use it for something. 

Next came the white satin lining with the gilt- 
lettered name and crest of the maker. Helen was 
fascinated by that expensive-looking crest. It 
would add distinctiveness to the lining of her bag. 

“I’ve got it now,” exploded Warren. “Had $27 
too much. Been over the blamed thing three times 
and couldn’t find it—a check here I hadn’t de¬ 
ducted.” 

“Now, can you look?” eagerly. “See how won¬ 
derfully this is coming out! And that silver top on 
my old bead bag—I think it’ll just fit.” 

“Fine!” in genial, good humor, since he had 
located his error. “Having the time of your life, 
eh?” 


384 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Yes, I love to do anything like this. Oh, do 
look at Pussy Purr-Mew! She’s too cunning for 
words.” 

Curled up inside the devastated hat, Pussy Purr- 
Mew gazed blandly out at them, awaiting their ad¬ 
miring attention. 

The lining finally sewed in, Helen got out the 
silver top. 

A moment’s anxious suspense as she measured 
it. Exactly the right size. The bag was going to be 
a great success. 

With her passion for utilizing old things, Helen 
was purringly happy. Nothing brought her greater 
joy than to find a use for something that would 
otherwise be thrown away. 

She had three old pillow cases filled with odds 
and ends of trimmings, lace and ribbons. Junk, 
Warren called it. Yet she loved to rummage 
through them and think how some day she could 
use this or that. 

But to make a handbag out of Warren’s old silk 
hat was so far her supreme achievement; also it 
suggested a new line of economic possibilities. 

His wardrobe had been overlooked as a source of 
supply for make-overs. Why could not his old 
derbies bo used for something? 

But her usual inventiveness failed her. She 
could think of nothing into which a derby could be 
converted. The shape was bafflingly inadaptable. 

“Look, dear, it’s finished,” triumphantly. 
“Didn’t I do that quick?” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


385 


“Um-um.” 

“Now, DO stop long enough to look at it! 
Wasn’t that a clever idea?” 

“Looks all right,” giving it a grudging glance. 

“You couldn’t buy one like it for any price,” 
with glowing elation. “They’d never put that 
quality of plush in a bag.” 

“Yep, that’s a good stunt. Fine way to use up 
the old lid,” impatient to get back to his work. 

“And you’re always poking fun at these economy 
hints in that magazine. You see how practical this 
was? It more than pays for a year’s subscription.” 

“Huh, bet that’s the first sensible thing you 
ever got out of it. What was that you read the other 
day—‘How to Make a Card Case Out of a Sardine 
Can’?” 

“You know it wasn’t.” 

“Well, almost as bad.” Then with a grin, “Gild 
Your Husband’s Cigar Butts,” as he tossed one into 
the tray, “And Make a Nobby Picture Frame.” 

“Wasn’t I lucky—this top just fits?” her en¬ 
thusiasm ignoring his scoffing humor. “And I love 
this gold stamp in the lining. Look, dear, ‘By 
Royal Appointment to H. M. the King’.” 

“Eh? What’s that?” explosively. 

“Why, I used the white satin lining and this was 
in the top,” showing him the stamp, “Hunt, Grimm 
& Co.” 

“Hunt, Grimm & Co.,” shouted Warren. “What 
the hell have you done?” 

Jumping up, he snatched the denuded frame 


386 HELEN AND WARREN 

from the table, tumbling out the indignant Pussy 
Purr-Mew. 

“You monumental idiot! You brainless, turnip¬ 
headed chump! You—you-” in spluttering 

incoherency. “Know what you’ve done?” 

A dread, sick fear engulfing her, Helen gazed at 
him dumbly. 

“That’s the NEW hat I bought in London last 
trip.” 

“No, no! It CAN’T be!” quaveringly. “It was 
way on the top shelf.” 

“Then you put it there,” he roared. “I bought 
this hat you’ve carved up at Hunt-Grimm’s last 
year,” shaking at her the grotesque naked block. 

Dashing into his closet, Helen dragged out his 
leather hat box. 

With trembling fingers she unbuckled the straps. 
The lid thrown back revealed the hat luxuriously 
embedded in the red velvet lining. 

Her throat tightened as she lifted it out. It was 
the OLD hat! The importer’s label and the slightly 
soiled headband confirmed it. 

In some incomprehensible way the hats had been 
put in the wrong boxes. 

“One of your damned ideas of economy,” thun¬ 
dered Warren. “Want to know what that little 
stunt will cost? You know what I’ll have to pay 
for a hat like that on Fifth Avenue?” 

But Helen had dropped on the floor by the leather 
case in a huddled, tearful heap. 

“What’ll you do next—make a sofa pillow out 



HELEN AND WARREN 


387 


of my dinner coat? Wonder that blooming maga¬ 
zine hasn’t told you to use my silk muffler for a dish 
rag—and save ten cents.” 

Helen was sobbing her abject hysterical contri¬ 
tion. 

“There, take your damned bag!” as he flung it 
on the floor beside her. “And your fool magazine, 
too,” flinging it after the bag. “Maybe you can dig 
out some more economy stunts. But you keep ’em 
for your own duds—you leave MINE alone! Don’t 
you ever touch a shoestring that belongs to me!” 


Divers Domestic Discords Contribute to 
Warren’s Sunday-Morning Grouch 

Sunday! The luxury of not having to get up! 

Turning her face from the window, Helen snug¬ 
gled deeper into the pillow. 

But on this coveted, extra Sunday-morning hour, 
she found herself perversely wakeful. 

“What time is it?” Warren stirred and yawned. 

“Dear, it’s Sunday. We don’t have to get up 
yet.” 

“Pull down that shade! Right in my eyes.” 

Drawing down the darkening shade, Helen cud¬ 
dled back into bed. 

The clock ticked off the precious moments, but 
still she could not sleep. Perhaps she had too 
much cover. It had grown warmer in the night. 
Sitting up, she flung back the pink silk comforter. 

Again settling down, tense with a disquieting 
consciousness of rare moments wasted, the more 
determinedly she sought sleep, the more wakeful 
she grew. 

The lowered shade was now flapping against the 
open window. Must she get up again to fix it? Or 
was it only a momentary breeze? 

“Fix that confounded shade!” growled Warren. 

Up again, she vainly tried to anchor the shade so 
it would not rattle. Finally, two pins driven in 
with the back of a hairbrush seemed to hold it. 

388 


HELEN AND WARREN 


389 


By this time she was so nervously awake that 
sleep was impossible. But she slipped back into 
bed, hoping Warren could sleep. 

Gazing at his tousled head above the hunched-up 
covers, she wondered why on week-day mornings 
she was dead for sleep, and yet on Sundays so 
obdurately wakeful. 

Again the tapping of the shade. The wind had 
loosened the pins. 

With an irate grunt, Warren was out of bed. 

“Guess that’ll do it,” as he slammed down the 
window. 

“Dear, we can’t sleep now, anyway. We might 
as well get up.” 

“Now you’re not going to roust me out Sunday 
morning,” flopping back into bed. “Here’s where 
I get a little extra sleep.” 

Tucking the covers about him, Helen stole into 
her own room to dress. 

Her evening gown, slippers, and lingerie strewn 
about proclaimed the lateness of their getting home 
last night. 

A dull headache was an added reminder of the 
Daltons’ after-theater supper. 

Helen dressed, straightened her room, took her 
bending exercises, and then went out to the kitchen. 

Susie, always sullen on Sunday mornings be¬ 
cause of the uncertainty of the breakfast hour, 
hastily put down the comic sheet and greeted her 
with a surly, 

“He didn’t bring no cream.” 


390 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“No cream? And there’s none left?” opening 
the ice-box. 

Under Susie’s regime there was never any cream 
left. The question had been merely perfunctory. 

“Plenty of milk,” now cutting the grapefruit 
with defiant vigor. 

“You know Mr. Curtis doesn’t like milk in his 
coffee. And Sunday morning, too—when he has 
time for a good breakfast. Give him the top of the 
bottle. Skim it off carefully in that small pitcher 
—just for him.” 

“Can I put my muffins in now?” Susie was dig¬ 
ging the seeds from the grapefruit. 

“No, Mr. Curtis isn’t up yet. I’ll tell you when. 
And don’t bake them too fast. Lay a paper over 
them, so they won’t burn on top.” 

Leaving the comic section for Susie’s edification, 
Helen took the rest of the bulky Sunday issue into 
the library. 

“Where in blazes’s that shaving cream I got the 
other day?” shouted Warren. 

“Dear, I thought you were going back to sleep,” 
hurrying to the bathroom, where he was fumbling 
in the crowded medicine chest. “There it is—top 
shelf.” 

“Who’s been using it?” glowering at the dented 
tube. 

“I did yesterday—to wash my hair. I was all 
out of shampoo.” 

“I like your nerve,” lathering his brush. “Using 
my shaving cream to wash your mop.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 391 

“Dear, I’ll go tell Susie you’re up. Do you want 
an omelet this morning?” 

“No, bacon and eggs—plenty of bacon. And 
don’t let her cook it to death. She can crisp yours 
—but I want something to sink my teeth in.” 

The instructions dutifully given to Susie, Helen 
started to put fresh water on her sprouting nar¬ 
cissus bulbs. 

A crash from the bathroom! 

Darting in she found Warren glaring profanely 
at a broken bottle. A dark liquid was oozing over 
the tiled floor into the pink-and-white bath mat. 

“Oh, my new bath mat!” she jerked it up. “That 
bronze shoe polish—it’ll never come out! How 
did you knock it off?” 

“Can’t get anything from that blooming cabinet 
without knocking something off. Look at it! 
Chock full of rubbish that don’t belong there. 
Shoe polish, hat dye, cleaning fluid, and all that 
face dope. Vanishing cream!” with a snort. “If 
some of this stuff don’t vanish out of here, I’ll 
pitch it out!” 

“Where am I to put it?” resentfully. “There’s 
no place in my room. No place to keep anything 
in this apartment. Hardly any closet room and 
no-” 

“Now don’t start on that. Get me some court 
plaster—bad cut on my chin.” 

The bad cut was only a scratch from his razor, 
but Warren was always deeply concerned over his 
slightest physical hurt. 



392 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Finding the court plaster, Helen proceeded to 
minister to the “wound.” 

“White, flesh or black? I guess flesh’ll suit your 
style of beauty best.” 

“Wouldn’t be so darn funny if you’d carved a 
chunk out of your face! Hurry up there—look 
how it’s bleeding.” 

With proper solicitude, Helen gravely wiped off 
the drop of blood and applied the court plaster 
to the microscopic cut. 

Then taking the bath mat to the pantry, she tried 
to wash out the purplish stain. 

“Soak it in milk,” advised Susie. “That’s how 
I got them rust stains out of them napkins. Can I 
put them muffins in now?” 

“Yes, Mr. Curtis is dressing now,” pouring some 
milk into a finger-bowl. 

At an irascible call from the bedroom, she left 
the stained corner to soak in the milk, and ran in 
to find Warren rummaging through his closet. 

“Where the devil’s that light gray suit? One I 
got in London?” 

“Isn’t it here?” looking through his many suits 
hung close on patent hangers. “Oh, that’s the one 
I sent yesterday to have pressed.” 

“Pressed? That didn’t need pressing.” 

“But you pay to have two pressed every week. 
The others didn’t need it either.” 

“Well of all the half-portioned featherbrains! 
Wear ’em out pressing ’em just to get your money’s 
worth!” 


HELEN AND WARREN 


393 


Leaving him to grumblingly select another suit, 
Helen went in to dust the library, always her task 
when it was Susie’s Sunday afternoon off. 

Her dull headache weighted her eyes. Were 
their Saturday night parties worth while if it made 
them both feel so wretched Sunday mornings? 

Warren, finally dressed, stalked in to breakfast 
with an expression noticeably lacking in amia¬ 
bility. 

“Wonder she wouldn’t seed the grapefruit,” 
ejecting a seed that Susie’s hasty scraping had 
missed. 

“Oh, dear, not so much! Sugar on any acid 
fruit is very bad. Dr. Arnold says it makes alcohol 
in the stomach.” 

“Fine!” sprinkling on another spoonful. 
“Here’s where we put one over on the Prohi¬ 
bitionists. They’ve no laws against fermentation 
in your stomach—YET.” 

“That oven don’t bake nothin’ even,” announced 
Susie, bringing in a plate of scorched muffins. 

“Oh, I told you to put a paper over them—and 
not to bake them fast.” 

Susie’s mumbled protestations Helen knew were 
not true. But not wanting to increase the hostility 
that charged the air, she diplomatically refrained 
from further comment on the incinerated muffins. 

“What’s this? You don’t call this cream?” 
Warren glared into the pitcher. 

“Dear, he didn’t leave any this morning. I 
told her to give you the top of the milk—but I 


394 


HELEN AND WARREN 


should’ve poured it off myself. She never will—” 

As Susie now swung in with the bacon and eggs, 
Helen discreetly changed the subject. 

“Never get a decent breakfast Sunday. Look at 
that egg!” Warren forked into a hardened yolk. 
“Fried to death. Punk coffee! And look at this,” 
scraping a charred muffin. “Ought to collect fire 
insurance on these biscuits.” 

“I’m sorry, dear. Hereafter, I won’t let her start 
breakfast until you’re ready to sit down. Would 
you like another cup of coffee with condensed 
milk?” 

“No, I wouldn’t. No coffee’s fit to drink without 
cream.” 

The morose silence that followed was broken 
only by the gleeful romping of Pussy Purr-Mew. 

“What’s that cat got?” Warren glowered at the 
wriggling ball of fur. 

“Your pocket match-box. That’s her latest trick 
—to paw it off the desk and bring it in here.” 

“And I was looking for it last night. Well, we’ll 
cut that turn out of her act. Here!” menacingly 
shoving back his chair. 

“Dear, let her have it! She can’t hurt it. Don’t 
take it from her.” 

“Why not?” he snapped. 

“She’s having such a glorious time,” as Pussy 
Purr-Mew, now on her back, was juggling the 
match-box with all four paws. “If she can get 
any pleasure out of that—let her. No one else 
seems very happy here this morning.” 


HELEN AND WARREN 395 

“Eh? What’s struck you?” at the betraying 
quiver in her voice. 

“Nothing,” tremulously, “except everything 
always goes wrong Sunday morning. I don’t know 
whether it’s because we try to sleep late—or be¬ 
cause you’ve more time to find fault—or what.” 

“Time to find fault?” explosively. “Well, I’ll 
take time to find fault whenever I get a bum break¬ 
fast like this.” 

“Dear, next Sunday let’s try to get up with the 
thought that things are going right,” nervously 
crumbling her burnt muffin. “Let’s take a happier 
attitude. Let’s try a little mental science.” 

“A happier attitude?” he snorted. “Well burnt 
biscuits, leathery eggs, and rotten coffee won’t make 
me yelp with joy. While you’re plugging away at 
your mental science, just work in a little CULI¬ 
NARY science—if you want to make a he-Polly- 
anna out of ME!” 


An Evening Acquiring Antiques in a 
Famous Old Knickerbocker Home 

It was a stately old house on lower Fifth 
Avenue. One of the few old New York residences 
still lingering in that once-exclusive section. 

Menaced on all sides by lofty structures, its doom 
was imminent. Across the street frowned a tower¬ 
ing steel framework, and another, nearer comple¬ 
tion, flaunted the sign, “Co-Operative Apartments 
For Sale.” 

“I’ve always wondered who lived here,” Helen 
thrilled with expectancy, as they went up the wide 
stone steps. “She must have some wonderful old 
things. I wish she’d take us all through the house.” 

“Well, she won’t,” Warren stabbed the bell. 
“Now you’re not to pipe up. I’m here to buy 
books. Shouldn’t have brought you, anyway.” 

Apparently he was expected, for the elderly 
butler ushered them through a spacious hall into 
a great, high, dimly lit room. 

“Gloomy old vault,” shrugged Warren. 

“But it’s full of atmosphere! All these old 
portraits!” 

“They’re the real thing, all right. She doesn’t 
have to buy her ancestors at an art sale. But I 
wouldn’t like to live with ’em. That’s a surly old 
cuss,” gazing at a grim old gentleman in a flowered 
waistcoat and high stock. 

The stern, austere aristocracy of the Stuyvesants 
396 


HELEN AND WARREN 


397 


had been emphasized by all the artists. It was 
an impressive but forbidding group of portraits. 

Steps on the stairs. The long velvet curtains 
parted dramatically. Leaning on the arm of an 
attendant, entered Miss Cordelia Stuyvesant. 

She was eighty at least, but still erectly tall, 
with the same long face and high-bridged nose of 
the portraits. Her heavy reddish braids, probably 
a wig, a black-jetted dinner gown, and many jewels 
defied her age. 

Her greeting was abrupt, but friendly. 

Seated in a high-back, winged chair she dis¬ 
missed her attendant. 

“That will do, Hannah. I will ring if I want 
you.” 

But hardly had the woman disappeared when, 
with a shiver, Miss Stuyvesant glanced over her 
shoulder at the long French window. 

“I feel a draught. Is that open? Thank you,” 
as Warren closed it. “Now, you’ll find the early 
law books in that case. You can turn on more 
lights.” 

In the strong light from the heavy crystal chan¬ 
deliers, the room lost some of its grandeur. 

The furnishings were a curious hodgepodge of 
many periods. Some modem Japanese bric-a- 
brac desecrated a fine old Italian cabinet. A 
hideous Oriental scarf covered a priceless Chip¬ 
pendale table. 

The tops of the low bookcases that lined the 
walls were cluttered with souvenirs of foreign 


398 HELEN AND WARREN 

travel. Some rare and expensive, others cheaply 
ordinary. 

“No, those on the lower shelf I want to keep,” 
she had taken a chair nearer the case Warren was 
inspecting. “Mrs. Curtis, if these old books don’t 
interest you, you’ll find some magazines back 
there.” 

In the rear bay window was a massive desk, 
piled with late periodicals. Helen took up a Lon¬ 
don literary monthly, but she was much more 
interested in watching Miss Stuyvesant, now sitting 
under the central chandelier. 

Her wig, or dyed hair, only hardened her deep- 
lined face. And her diamonds—rings, chains, 
brooches, and bracelets—gave a Christmas-tree 
effect. 

Her jetted gown, cut low, a rose velvet ribbon 
with a diamond clasp encircled her withered throat. 

Why not black? wondered Helen. Did no one 
dare tell her that bright rose only emphasized the 
sallowness of her shriveled neck? 

Above her hung a portrait of a young woman 
—the features unmistakable. Her own portrait! 
Helen shuddered at the tragedy of age. 

“You’re wondering if I ever looked like that?” 
Miss Stuyvesant turned abruptly, an ironic gleam 
in her keen eyes. “You needn’t flush, my dear, 
that’s what the years do to us all—if we live long 
enough.” 

“It’s—it’s a wonderful portrait,” stammered 
Helen, reddening. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


399 


“Painted the year I made my debut,” musingly. 
“But I’ve outlived my generation. All my old 
friends—they’ve all gone now. I won’t be here 
much longer. That’s why I’m clearing out—mak¬ 
ing it easier for my executors,” cynically. “Well, 
Mr. Curtis, are any of those worth anything to 
you?” 

“There’re a few books here I’d like, but I’d 
advise you to sell the lot as a collection—or send 
it to auction. Anderson’s or the American Art. 
If I pick out the best things, the rest won’t bring 
much.” 

“No, I won’t bother sending them to auction,” 
crustily. “I’ll sell what I can, and give the rest 
to some library. There’re more in that next case.” 

“You haven’t any old needlework—any sam¬ 
plers?” ventured Helen. 

“All my laces are packed away. But there 
was a sampler here somewhere. Wonder what I 
did with that? Look in that cabinet.” 

Eagerly Helen opened the heavy drop-front of 
the Italian cabinet. Old daguerreotypes, fans, bits 
of ivory, crystal, and a package of age-yellowed 
letters. 

“It’s not there? Then I don’t know where it is. 
The tyranny of things! That’s what it comes to— 
all these things we collect. I’m past that. Now 
I’m getting rid of them—saving my executors the 
trouble.” 

“Could it be in this?” Helen took out a tissue- 
paper package. 


400 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“Open it. First hand me those cigarettes,” 
sharply. “You have one? No?” 

Her claw-like, be-diamonded hand tremblingly 
held the cigarette as Warren applied the match. 

“Yes, it’s the sampler! A Dutch one!” thrilled 
Helen, unfolding it. 

“What did I do with my glasses? I can’t see a 
thing without them.” 

Helen found her glasses and they examined the 
sampler. Two alphabets, a house, a wind-mill, and 
two quaint Dutch figures were the designs. 

“I never really looked at it before. A good 
one?” peering at Helen. 

“Yes, it’s very fine work. It’s too bad it isn’t 
dated.” 

“Well, Mr. Curtis,” she turned abruptly, “found 
anything else?” 

“No, nothing that interests me. Just those six 
I laid out.” 

“What’re they worth?” was her blunt demand. 

“Well, Miss Stuyvesant, I’ll give eighty dollars 
for the six. But you might get more, if you send 
them to auction.” 

“But I’m not going to send them to auction,” 
with sharp finality. “You can have them and 
welcome. I’ll take your word for it that that’s a 
fair price.” 

As Warren drew out his check-book, Helen, 
standing back of Miss Stuyvesant, nodded to the 
sampler and frantically signaled “twenty” with 
her fingers. 


HELEN AND WARREN 


401 


“How ’bout that sampler, Miss Stuyvesant?” 
yielding to her pantomimic appeal. “Would you 
sell that? Mrs. Curtis is dippy about old needle¬ 
work.” 

“Mrs. Haverhill, who gave me that, isn’t dead 
yet. What if she should ask for it? I might say 
I couldn’t find it,” humorously. 

Then, riveting her shrewd eyes on Helen, 

“You want it very much? Yes, you’re all 
enthusiasm. You have the real collector’s flair. 
I used to have it, but I don’t want anything any 
more—except a little peace from this villainous 
rheumatism. Let me see that sampler again.” 

Helen handed it to her, with her glasses that 
had slipped to the floor. 

“What’ll you give for it?” her brusque direct¬ 
ness was disconcerting. 

“I thought about twenty,” flushed Helen. “You 
see, it isn’t dated.” 

“Good little buyer, aren’t you? Well, take it! 
I won’t miss it.” 

“Then I’ll make the check an even hundred,” 
Warren uncapped his pen. 

“It’s half-past nine, Miss Cordelia,” an attend¬ 
ant entered with a medicine bottle and glass. “You 
should’ve had this at nine.” 

“Take it away,” waving aside the tray. “It’s 
some stupid medicine every half hour. Doesn’t 
do me any good.” 

“But, Miss Cordelia, the doctor said-” 

“I don’t care what the doctor said! Take it 
away,” pounding with her cane. 



402 


HELEN AND WARREN 


“No, I don’t believe in medicine, either,” glowed 
Helen. “It’s all mental. If we’d only learn to 
think right—we’d never be sick.” 

“I’ve my own philosophy about life. It’s carried 
me over some rough places. Oh, yes, I’ve had 
my share of trouble—more than my share.” 

“Now, we don’t want to tire you, Miss Stuyves- 
ant,” Warren broke in. 

“You’re not tiring me. I like to see people. 
I’m going to Carlsbad next month, if I live that 
long. Just touch that bell and Morton will see 
you out.” 

“Guess we can find our way,” Warren took up 
his books. “No, don’t get up, Miss Stuyvesant. 
Glad you’re going to Carlsbad—ocean trip’ll do 
you good.” 

“It used to. I loved to go abroad—went every 
year. But now—” her bony hand gestured her 
indifference about everything now. 

With the aid of her cane she hobbled to the 
door and saw them into the hall. 

Down the stately steps, and they came out into 
the soft, mist-blurred night. 

“Oh, dear, I feel so sorry for her! With all her 
money and fame—just a lonely old woman,” Helen 
shivered. 

“Now you don’t have to worry about her,” 
shrugged Warren. “That’s just her pose. She’s 
had a mighty interesting life—got a lot to look 
back on.” 

“To look back on? Is that all we have when 


HELEN AND WARREN 


403 


we’re old? Just memories? And when she sat 
there under her portrait! Oh, it was so ghastly and 
pathetic!” 

“She didn’t seem pathetic to me. Pretty well 
dolled up for an old lady.” 

“That’s what made it so ghastly—all those 
diamonds. Seven bracelets—I counted them! And 
wasn’t that a wig?” 

“How’d I know? I went there to buy books— 
not to look her over.” 

“No, no, I don’t mean to criticize. But, dear, 
when I’m old, if I want to dress like that—don’t 
let me!” 

“Don’t worry, you’ll not wear seven diamond 
bracelets! You won’t have ’em—unless you get 
somebody else to cough up.” 

“Dear, I know just how I’m going to dress! 
Quaint old-fashioned taffeta gowns with real lace 
fichus, and a cunning little cap on my white hair. 
I’ll look like that picture of Whistler’s mother— 
only more so, because I’m little.” 

“Huh, you may not be so little when you’re 
eighty! Probably be fat, weigh a ton, and doll 
yourself up like a Floradora Soubrette. A cap on 
your white hair?” he chuckled. “If you’ve any 
hair, I bet it’ll be dyed, bobbed, and permanently 
frizzed—or you’ll wear a wig over your bald 
spots. Now don’t throw bouquets as to how you’ll 
dress when you’re old. The older they are— 
the younger the get-up.” 


404 


HELEN AND WARREN 


Then with a grin, as he looked down and tucked 
her arm through his: 

“But don’t you worry, Kitten. You suit me 
pretty well now, and I guess you will when you’re 
eighty—even if you do trick yourself out like a 
fussed-up Christmas tree!” 

























